His Lordship's Secret

by Samantha SoRelle

  The risk was enormous. He didn’t know Dominick. Not really. And if he was wrong, if Dominick was no longer as trustworthy and good as he had been, if the last thirteen years had twisted him into someone else, someone worse? He already knew enough to ruin him if he so chose. But someone was trying to kill Alfie, and if it came to it, he would choose ruin over death any day.

  “I am not of noble birth, as you well know. My parents—that is, the Lord and Lady Crawford—were considered extremely scandalous. For example, there’s a portrait of them in the front hall in full Eastern dress. Quite shocking. They were adventurers, you see, and spent much of their lives abroad, going to the sorts of far flung places where a child would have only been a hindrance in their travels.

  “By the time they decided to return to London, they were past both age and interest in begetting an heir. They did not think it would much matter; my father had a younger brother who could inherit. But when they arrived, they quickly discovered that my uncle had squandered what money, responsibility, and reputation he had. I’d rather not list his crimes, but believe me when I say that his son, my cousin Reginald, is a vile wastrel of a man but only a pale imitation of his father.”

  Alfie paused to take a sip of tea. He shouldn’t speak of his cousin like that, even if it was true. But he needed Dominick to fully understand.

  “My parents decided that under no circumstances should my uncle inherit and that rather than risk the entire earldom falling to shambles and destroying the lives of all who depended upon it for survival, the morally though not legally correct thing to do was to find themselves an heir. So they went to the least-reputable workhouse they could find, where a child might be acquired off the books…”

  “And found you.”

  Alfie nodded. Dominick didn’t need to know that Alfie had been his parents’ second choice. As they were fond of reminding him when he misbehaved. It would have been Lord Baz Crawford if the other boy hadn’t been stupid enough to tussle with Dominick before they made their final decision.

  As guilty as that made Alfie feel sometimes, he tried to make up for it by being extra diligent with his investments and correspondence with his land managers, to make sure the earldom had the best care and that his tenants were as prosperous and contented as possible.

  Baz and Reginald would probably have got on like a house on fire, and burned the earldom to the ground around them.

  “And found me,” he continued. “Of course an adopted child can’t inherit a title, so they claimed I’d been born in Egypt years earlier and they simply hadn’t written about me because of a local superstition that said it was bad luck to do so.

  “Utter nonsense naturally, but it gave them an excuse to suddenly have a child no one knew about. After that it was merely a matter of private tutors to train the Spitalfields accent out and the manners in, and they had an heir. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and act the perfect little gentleman.”

  Alfie laughed darkly, “And if I made a mistake, they could always blame my foreign upbringing. You can’t imagine all the wondrous places I have supposedly been.”

  He couldn’t keep the wistfulness from his voice. He risked a glance up at Dominick.

  When Mrs. Hirkins had announced that Dominick was waiting for him, Alfie had intended the first words out of his mouth to be an apology for his unforgivably familiar actions the night before, but when he’d actually seen Dominick walking into his dining room, bruised and battered but real as life and with such a fierce look of concentration on his face as he tried to keep the tray from spilling, Alfie couldn’t help but smile. His heart warmed at the sight, and he remembered why he hadn’t slept well the night before. Each time he’d drifted off to sleep, he’d dreamed of being a small child, nestled up in bed, surrounded by warmth and protection. It had felt so real that he kept waking up, reaching back for someone behind him, and blinking confused in the dark when he wasn’t there.

  It wasn’t hard to decipher the reason for those dreams when it was literally right in front of him.

  He cleared his throat.

  “And that was that. To no one’s surprise, my uncle died of overindulgence well before my father, and I inherited instead of Reginald. I told myself at first that I would just keep up the charade until my mother died and then hand everything over to the rightful heir. I even tried to bring Reginald more into the running of the earldom, so that the transition would be easier.

  “I gave him one of the smaller estates, thinking it would give him a purpose if he had something to manage, as well as serve as a pleasant escape from the city and its temptations.

  “Within a fortnight he’d lost it in a game of cards to a man who wanted to clear-cut the forests for timber and sell off the farmland to his friends. Dozens of families would have been forced from homes that they had lived in for generations. It took me nearly a month to convince the man to sell it all back to me, and even then I had to pay twice what it was worth. Financially it was a terrible decision, but I knew what poverty would mean for those families and I could not bear the thought of being in some way responsible.”

  Alfie jumped as a warm hand wrapped around his wrist. He looked up at Dominick who was smiling fondly at him.

  “You always had a good heart, Alfie. Even when it got you into trouble. Don’t start apologising for it now.” Dominick gave his arm a friendly shake. Alfie could feel the warmth of his hand even through his shirt and banyan.

  “So I kept the title. And now someone is trying to kill Alfred Pennington, Earl of Crawford.”

  Dominick's grip on Alfie's wrist tightened almost to the point of pain, his face darkening. Alfie hissed as the bones of his wrist ground against each other. Dominick's glower changed to a look of contrition and he let go. Alfie missed the feeling immediately.

  His injured arm throbbed in sympathy with his wrist as he methodically went over the shooting the day before. He could scarcely believe that it had been less than a full day since the shooting, finding Dominick, everything. Life could turn so suddenly on the smallest things.

  As he described the dizzying realisation of what had happened, he saw Dominick's hand twitch, like he wanted to reach out and touch him again. He didn’t, instead twisting his napkin between his hands, but the fact he had wanted to at all gave Alfie the perseverance to keep going.

  “...and that is why I want to hire you to be my bodyguard,” he finished. “To keep an eye out when I’m distracted. I assumed there was nowhere in London safer than Mayfair and look what happened. I doubt you would make the same mistake.”

  Dominick didn’t respond for a long moment, then said softly, “You said there were other attacks?”

  Alfie leaned back in his chair. “I think so. At the time I just chalked them up to accidents or coincidences. A stone from nowhere striking my horse causing her to rear up while I was out riding. A jostle on a crowded walkway nearly pushing me in front of a speeding mail coach. That sort of thing.”

  Dominick nodded slowly, then put his elbows on the table, face in his hands.

  When no further response seemed forthcoming, Alfie said tentatively, “You always said I needed a keeper.”

  Dominick groaned, and scrubbed his face.

  “I should have known,” he muttered, in a voice low enough Alfie had to lean in to hear.

  “You were trouble enough when you were little. Of course the trouble grew with you. Right, someone is trying to kill you. I suppose I’d better make sure they don’t. Why though?”

  “Why… do you have to make sure they don’t kill me?”

  Dominick rolled his eyes. “Because I don’t want to waste the effort I put in keeping you alive when we were little. No, I mean why does someone want you dead?”

  Oh. Alfie hadn’t actually thought about that. The realisation that it was happening at all was as far as he had gotten.

  “Well, out with it,” Dominick said. “No use keeping secrets now. I already know you’re a lowborn, flea-bitten orphan posing as a lord. How much wo
rse could it be? Sleep with a married woman? Fell in with anarchists and revolutionaries? Spit champagne on the wrong person at a ball or whatever it is you rich coves do for fun?”

  Alfie smiled faintly. “No, no, and definitely not. I mean, I suppose it could be revolutionary republicans after me, liberté, égalité, fraternité and all that, and I am just the first on a very long list of targets. But it seems unlikely.”

  “How about your cousin then? That seems the likely answer to me. Is there any way he could have found out that he’s the rightful Count of Cuckold?”

  Alfie rolled his eyes. He knew Dominick was doing it on purpose to distract him from the fact they were discussing who wanted him dead, but couldn’t resist correcting him anyway. “Earl of Crawford.”

  “Ah yes, of course.” Dominick's face was blank, but his eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth. “I associate with so many lords and ladies, it’s hard to keep them all straight.”

  “I’m sure. And I hate to think it, but…”

  “But it does make sense.”

  “It does,” Alfie admitted. “But why kill me? If he knows he’s the rightful heir, then why not just take me to court? It’s not like he’s ever given a damn about scandal before. It would be less risky than taking a shot at me, or even hiring someone else to do it.

  “And if he doesn’t know, that means he’s trying to kill his own flesh and blood in order to inherit. I would like to say that for all his faults I don’t think he has it in him, but I just don’t know.”

  Alfie stood, no longer able to be confined to a chair. He paced angrily over to the window. “I should just give it to him, just find some way to hand it over and disappear. Go to one of those faraway places from your bedtime stories that I’m already supposed to have visited. Just go and never return.”

  He looked out the window. The dining room was along the front of the house with views into Bedford Square Park. New leaves were budding bright green in the trees, and in the grass a few brave crocuses sprung out in bright yellow and purple. He’d always wanted a chance to see real nature, but his parents had firmly put their travelling days behind them when they returned to London, and the furthest he’d ever been out of the city was to Cambridge for his schooling.

  “Did you know, the Earl of Crawford hasn’t set foot in the earldom itself for over forty years? It’s somewhere on the coast of Scotland. I do the best that I can from here, but I’ve never been. My parents visited shortly after their marriage, then boarded a ship in Edinburgh and never returned. A beautiful family seat from what I’m told. Several hundred years old. And even though he went everywhere else, my father never bothered to go back.”

  “It sounds lovely.” Alfie hadn’t heard Dominick move, but there he was, leaning against the other side of the window frame, his body turned towards Alfie, watching him across the expanse of glass. Alfie leaned his forehead against the cool pane and exhaled, watching it fog up with his breath.

  “Maybe I should go there. I had thought about doing it before this all started, after my mother died. But now…”

  “Now it would feel too much like running away.” Dominick crossed his arms across his chest and ducked his chin.

  Alfie nodded. He met Dominick's eyes, and there it was again, no doubting it this time. That pull he’d felt the night before. The undeniable feeling of connection. From the look in Dominick's eyes, he felt it too. It was too palpable to ignore. Alfie felt his chest tighten and pulse flutter. He had never felt such an immediate spark to another person before. Maybe it was because he already knew Dominick and this was just the feeling of their friendship clicking back into place after so many years apart.

  Or maybe it was something baser. Lord knew, even with his bruises, Dominick was easily the most attractive man Alfie had ever seen. Despite the open view onto the street between them, where any passerby could look up and see, he felt a physical pull towards Dominick. The light touches he’d had the night before while bandaging him up were nothing, a few drops of water to a man dying of thirst. He wanted, needed to touch Dominick all over, and be touched by him in return.

  He opened his mouth to say something, although he didn’t know what, when there was a knock at the door.

  He smiled ruefully at the look of annoyance on Dominick's face, and nodded towards the table. “I’ll get it. Go finish your breakfast so she doesn’t fuss over the both of us.”

  He walked to the door and opened it. Mrs. Hirkins stood on the other side with a collection of papers in her hand.

  “Beg your pardon, but the morning mail just arrived and I thought I’d see how you were getting on.”

  “I haven’t stabbed you with a table knife and made off with the fine china, if that’s what she’s asking,” Dominick called out cheerily.

  “Yet,” muttered Mrs. Hirkins under her breath.

  “We’re fine, Mrs. Hirkins, thank you,” Alfie said, taking the mail from her and pretending he hadn’t heard either of them. “Mr. Tripner was just telling me how much he enjoyed your excellent scones. He said they were the best he’s ever had. He’s agreed to my offer of employment for the foreseeable future, so I’m sure we’re all looking forward to having an amicable relationship.”

  Mrs. Hirkins looked like she’d bitten into a lemon and gave an aggrieved sigh. She pulled a small canister from her apron pocket.

  “In that case give him this, I don’t want to have a heart attack every time I turn a corner and see his face.” With that she bustled off, back to the dominion of her kitchen.

  Alfie handed the canister to Dominick and sat back in his seat with the mail.

  “More arnica,” Dominick said. “That means she likes me, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be asking to go for a turn with you next half day,” Alfie said distractedly.

  He flipped through the letters. Invitation, invitation, he set those in a pile to either ignore or politely decline. A quarterly update from his solicitor, that would need responding to later. Odd, this last one had no return address. He opened it, and read the single line it contained.

  It was as if someone had thrown open all the windows at once and let in the sharp chill of morning air. A shiver ran down his spine. Distantly he heard Dominick calling his name. He read the line again and again until his hands began to shake so hard the words blurred.

  I know what you are.

  Chapter 10

  Dominick looked up at the rough gasp. Alfie bolted upright, knocking his chair back, a look of absolute terror on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” Dominick asked, immediately on alert. He rushed to Alfie’s side, then hesitated, torn between the demands of society that he keep a proper distance and the clear distress on Alfie’s face.

  To the devil with it.

  Dominick threw an arm over Alfie's shoulders, and felt the fine tremors running through his body. He tucked Alfie securely against his side, and reached for the letter.

  Alfie sagged, knees going out from under him, and Dominick cursed, taking a moment to maneuver him back onto his chair. He kept his hand on Alfie's shoulder, hoping to ground him with his touch. Finally confident that Alfie wasn’t going anywhere, he turned back to the letter.

  The paper was high quality; even Dominick's uneducated eye could tell that. There was a weight to it and a softness, almost like cloth. It was far from the near-translucent newsprint or coarse pamphlets he was used to. The top edge was rough, but not like it had been torn away, more like whoever made the paper wanted you to see all the rich layers of pulp that had gone into it, so everyone would know how fine it really was.

  The handwriting on it was not of the same high quality. The letters were large and blocky in a way that Dominick would have called childish, if not for the fact he could write little better himself.

  Their message however, was clear.

  I know what you are.

  “Well,” he said slowly. “I guess that answers the question of if anyone else knows you’re a fake.” He squeezed Alfie's shoulder
companionably.

  “That’s not my cousin’s handwriting.”

  “If it was, I’d say those swish schools were an even bigger waste of blunt than I thought. Paper’s quality though, did you notice?”

  “Did I notice the paper?” Alfie looked up at Dominick. It was a good angle on him. Dominick pushed that thought to the back of his mind and focused Alfie’s incredulous look instead.

  “Do you have ice water in your veins? No, I can’t say my first thought when opening a blackmail letter was to take note of the excellence of the stationery!”

  Dominick huffed and chucked Alfie lightly under the chin before going to sit back in his own chair. “No need to be like that about it, just because I figured out the first clue to our blackmailer before you.”

  “Our… what? And how is that a clue?”

  “Well,” Dominick leaned his chair back on two legs. The delicate wood gave a faint groan at the strain and he thought better of it. “For the first, you don’t send a letter like that for no reason. It’s to get the mark good and scared. When he thinks you’re at your wit’s end, he’ll send another letter with his terms.

  “For the second, you’d know if someone in your set wrote like that, wouldn’t you? All you lot do is write back and forth from what I can see.”

  “The alternative is meeting in person, and we’re all equally insufferable, I assure you. But I see your point. No, in the peerage everyone has the same overly ornate hand drilled into us by equally indistinguishable tutors and schoolmasters.”

  “Right, and this looks like it was written by a coster’s wife. So that means that whoever’s been trying to kill you is either lower class, or has at least contracted out to someone lower to do their dirty work for him.”

  “And is paying him well enough that he wastes money on paper?

  Dominick shrugged. “Maybe it was all he had. Or since he had to pay to post it anyway, perhaps he felt like splashing out? That might explain it if he was expensing it. Would also explain why he tried cheaper ways to off you first, rocks and shoves and the like. A pistol is the first thing a man pawns when money is tight, and the last thing he buys back.”