When Good Earls Go Bad

by Megan Frampton

  “And how were your meetings, my lord?” she asked, her tone sounding as though she were actually interested. She didn’t wait for his reply before continuing. “My day was spent in meetings with dust and grime. I am surprised the rental agent allowed the house to be let like this. I cleaned your bedroom, so it is all ready for you this evening. I hope it is to your liking; the sheets and room are clean, at least.”

  Matthew took a sip of the tea. Made just how he liked it, and he’d only told her once how he took it. That warmed him as much as the tea did.

  “If it is a bed, it will suit me fine,” he said, feeling for the first time how his travel and uncomfortable sleeping position last night had affected him. He wished he didn’t have to go out to his uncle’s tonight; he wanted to stay here. Specifically, stay here with her and her charming manner, and how she asked questions she really wanted to know the answers to but didn’t wait for a reply, since it seemed her mind was traveling so quickly.

  He hadn’t met many ladies who weren’t entirely circumspect in their speech before. He found it oddly refreshing.

  “And your meetings?” she asked again, her head still bent to her task.

  “Fine.” There was so much to research; he knew it could be done within a few weeks, but so much was riding on his decision: not only his uncle’s money, but the livelihood of the people he employed, not to mention Mr. Andrews’s employees and the people who manufactured the fabric Mr. Andrews wished to sell.

  He felt an unfamiliar exhaustion creeping over him, not just from his general fatigue but with always having to be responsible for so many people. His mother and his sisters, his workers, his tenants, more distant family like his uncle and others, and all the people who knew him to be responsible and thoughtful, so would come asking for his advice.

  Nobody but her had ever asked, with any sincerity, how he was feeling.

  The earl let out one of those long-suffering sighs with which Annabelle was familiar; normally it was when people had spoken with her for more than ten minutes or so, but his expression was distant, not as though he were thinking of her at all. Which piqued her, but was also satisfying; she didn’t want him to be another person who was annoyed or irritated at having to speak with her.

  She knew full well that she could be both annoying and irritating. She’d tried to be circumspect, to behave as all those polite young ladies did. But whenever she tried, she felt as though something were being smothered inside of herself, and then she blurted out something worse than she would have if she had just been being herself.

  Maybe she should teach the How to Speak to Annabelle class, because then she could just say, “I am who I am, and I am fine being that way, thank you.”

  It would be a very short class, and likely not worth anyone’s time or money.

  “What is it?” she asked, setting the iron up on the surface she’d been ironing on and casting a critical gaze on the cravat. It was fine, but she wanted to prolong their time together, so she laid it out as though she had spotted a wrinkle and began to work again.

  A pause, and she wondered if he was going to reply or just sit there and sigh, not deeming his mere housekeeper worthy of a reply.

  “There’s a lady I am going to meet this evening.”

  Why did that make her stomach tighten? Oh, of course, because he was an attractive man, and she’d just met him, not to mention they’d very briefly shared a bed. But he was an earl, even if it was a Scottish title, whereas she, she was just Annabelle, partner in the Quality Employment Agency and a surrogate housekeeper.

  “I know my uncle means well. I’m just . . . I hadn’t planned on it.” He sounded genuinely perturbed, and she had the sense that surprises were generally not allowed to happen to him. No wonder he’d been so startled at finding her in the house when he hadn’t expected her until the following day. “I know I will wed, it is my right and my duty, but I came here with one purpose, not two.”

  “What about love?” She couldn’t help the words that spilled out of her, any more than she could help how her stomach tightened even more at the thought of marrying just for right and duty. “Love is the reason”—sometimes the only reason, she thought—“so many of us do things. They may not always be the right things, but they are the things that matter. Love matters.” She felt the burn of unshed tears and chided herself for being so emotional, especially in front of this man to whom emotion seemed like another annoyance.

  “I wish I felt as you do, Miss Tyne,” he answered. His tone wasn’t condemning, but wistful. As though he really did wish he felt that way.

  It had been a while since anybody had taken her seriously. And she didn’t think a man ever had. Long ago, before she’d known people could be deceptive, she’d thought a man had. And she’d fallen for him, fallen in love, and become a fallen woman.

  And he’d let her lie there rather than help her up. Other women might have turned their back on love permanently, but not Annabelle; she’d known men like Charles were out there and might try to take advantage of her again, but she wouldn’t forswear love just because of a few deceptive men. She’d try to be wise in whom she admired, would try to remember, since she was incapable of lying herself, that others would lie in pursuit of their goals.

  And she had to admit that even though she had fallen, as she had so thoroughly after Charles, at least it had brought her the agency and her friends.

  Besides which, all the books she read seemed to indicate that having some sort of horrible thing happen to someone then resulted in a wonderful thing happening. She was hoping it wasn’t just fiction.

  “You can feel as I do, my lord,” she said softly. He shook his head “no” almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

  “You have to open your heart to the possibilities.” She began to fold the cravat. “Perhaps this lady you will meet tonight, perhaps she is the one you are destined to love.”

  “I don’t believe in destiny,” he said, his voice scornful. “Destiny is what people blame when their own foolishness caused a mishap in their lives. Destiny, fate, what God intended; it’s all an excuse for people who aren’t strong enough to control their own lives.”

  Her heart hurt at how harsh and bitter he sounded. “Some people do that, yes. But I didn’t meant destiny as though you can’t do anything to control it yourself. I mean it as something you have to be open to. Not something you control, or don’t control. Just . . . your future. Whatever it might be, you have to be open to making choices.”

  “Risk-taking is for fools who can’t predict the future, Miss Tyne.” He lifted his gaze to regard her face, his expression looking almost chagrined. “Although I don’t suppose you are a fool, I apologize if it seems as though I called you one.”

  Annabelle shook her head ruefully. “You are not the first person to have called me a fool, even if you didn’t mean it, and you will not be the last. I learned a long time ago that what is right for me is not right for others. I do so hope that happiness is right for you, my lord.”

  Long after he’d changed his clothing and put on his freshly ironed cravat, long after he’d exchanged pleasantries with the very pleasant young lady his uncle had introduced him to, even after he’d made his final good-byes and was making his way back home in a creaky carriage, her words echoed in his head: “I do so hope that happiness is right for you.”

  He leaned back against the carriage seat and gazed out the window. It was night, but there were a few lamps lit against the bleak darkness, and here and there Matthew saw movement in the shadows. Did those people have happiness in their future? What made him so deserving?

  The only thing that seemed to matter was his ability to decide things for other people. And that he had been born to his particular father in a particular region, and thus had inherited particular holdings.

  Could that bring him happiness? Suddenly, the thought of what happiness could be rushed in on him so quickly he started. A woman, a woman with a quick laugh, a ready wit, and an ability to l
augh at herself and at him, waiting for him when he returned home. A woman who would, perhaps, upset his orderly way of life, but not for the worst, as he’d always imagined. Maybe for the better, even though he’d never thought of that possibility before.

  The carriage pulled up in front of the house and he descended, pressing a few coins into the hackney driver’s hand. By now he was accustomed to the man’s making a comment about his country of origin, and he waved his hand in dismissal as he ascended the stairs.

  Long after he had washed and changed, long after he’d found his now-clean bedroom and crawled into bed, long after he’d watched the clock move from twelve o’clock to one o’clock to two o’clock, he heard her voice.

  “I do so hope that happiness is right for you.”

  A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

  We wish to encourage everyone, not just housekeepers, to refrain from biting the dust. Either you will expire, or you will have a mouthful of unpleasantness. Either way, it is not to be desired.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The week passed about the same way each day; Annabelle made tea for the earl, who spoke very little but looked at her frequently, and then he’d head off to do his work and she’d be left on her own. She’d had enough free time to work at the agency for a few hours here and there, but she was beginning to realize she needed to start the How to Speak to Annabelle class if only to hear another voice that wasn’t her own speaking.

  He took most meals at his uncle’s house where, she presumed—but didn’t want to imagine—he met many ladies who were ladies, whereas not only was she not a lady, she was also not a housekeeper. Although she had to admit she was keeping the house perfectly well, at least as much as he allowed her to.

  He returned late at night, holding various amounts of paperwork and speaking just as little as he had in the morning. And yet, she got the feeling he was acutely aware of her, just as she was acutely aware of him.

  There was a substantial amount of acuity in the house.

  On the eighth day, she heard the key turn in the door earlier than was his custom. She’d still spent the past five hours completely on her own, and she’d been reduced to speaking with the mice she assumed were present but couldn’t see.

  Heaven help her if she did see them, since she was terrified of mice. And don’t even speak about rats.

  She’d read some of her book, but it was so oddly distracting to be alone in this big house, so quiet, where she was accustomed to the noise of the other tenants in her building, the comings and goings of all the other workers who lived there. She didn’t know if she’d ever get accustomed to the quiet, especially after only a week.

  He’d been very late the night before; she hadn’t heard him come in, but then again she’d been completely exhausted from her day of cleaning and had eaten a quick dinner (oatmeal, no toast) and then taken herself off to bed, alone, long before she even expected him to arrive.

  That morning, as usual, she’d caught him staring at her a few times, as though he wished to ask something, but wasn’t certain.

  Hopefully it wasn’t anything about why the toast was always burnt, because she simply did not have an answer. It just was. Was that the toast’s destiny? She wished she could point out the joke to him, but she was thinking he might not find it nearly as amusing as she did.

  “Good evening, my lord,” she said, shutting the book and placing it on the table beside her. She rose and walked to where the earl stood, smoothing her not-quite-worst dress. “I trust you had a pleasant day? Let me have that,” she said, taking the large case he was carrying without waiting for him to reply. Or even to hand it over, judging by how his grip had tightened as she drew it away.

  “Good evening, Miss Tyne,” the earl replied, his eyes on where she held the case.

  “You look tired. Are you tired? That is, I know it is rude to comment on how someone looks, at least unless the someone has a piece of food in their teeth, in which case it would be rude not to point it out, for fear that the person might be embarrassed later on. What if the Queen should happen to stop by?”

  The earl gaped at her as though she were speaking a foreign language, an impossibility since she didn’t know any.

  “The Queen is not likely to stop by, as you say, Miss Tyne.” The earl sounded tired as well. It appeared she would have to supply his end of the conversation as well that evening. “Miss Tyne,” he continued, before she could announce her plans for monologuing, “I am hungry, and I would like it if you would accompany me for some dinner. I presume you have not eaten? I do not recall you buying either bread or oatmeal,” he said in a nearly humorous tone.

  Was he actually making a joke? The Earl of Dour?

  “I would love to, my lord,” she said, responding without even thinking about the impropriety of her employer, a member of the aristocracy, taking his employee, a fallen woman who was attempting to right herself, out for a meal.

  Well, or not thinking about it very much. Or about the fact that he wasn’t at his uncle’s, for once, but was home with apparently no plans but to take her out somewhere. And since she was hungry and he seemed to want company, and if all he needed was for her to be present and answer the door and tidy his things, it didn’t seem like too much to ask for her to accompany him to dine. Besides which, she was tired of talking to the mice. They hadn’t read her book, after all, so they had little to discuss with one another.

  “Shall we?” the earl said, pulling her cloak down from the peg by the door. He held it out for her, and she slid her arms in, very aware of how close he was, and how much power he seemed to exude, not to mention how incredibly handsome he was.

  She wondered if he knew just how handsome he was. Perhaps she wouldn’t ask him, at least not this evening when they had just barely met.

  “Do you know where we should go?” she asked instead, a much more innocuous question, and definitely more pertinent, than inquiring if he’d ever noticed his own looks.

  “I saw a tavern a few streets away. It looked suitable,” he replied, as she buttoned her cloak and pulled the hood over her head.

  “Excellent,” Annabelle said, as he opened the door, that deliciously lovely feeling of being in the presence of aristocracy curling in her stomach.

  Although if she were honest with herself, which she always was, she would have to say it was mostly because of the aforementioned handsomeness, because he was a Scottish earl, and those didn’t seem to count as much. Although, since he was the only Scot and the only earl she’d ever known, perhaps she should say Scottish earls—the ones in her acquaintance, at least—mattered quite a lot.

  The tavern was nearby, and Annabelle was relieved to see other women inside, not that she wouldn’t have gone in anyway, but at least it seemed somewhat more proper for her to be there if there were other women there, too. None of the other women were ladies, but then again, none of the men in there were gentlemen, either, so it seemed proper enough.

  The earl, Scottish though he was, was the only gentleman within, in fact.

  He ensured she was properly settled, then sat himself opposite her at a low table in the back. He exhaled, one of those long, “I’ve just been speaking to Annabelle too long” sighs, only they hadn’t spoken at all.

  So that would be up to her. “How was your day, my lord?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She felt as though he’d rebuffed her and felt momentarily hurt, until he met her gaze. “Tell me about yours. What were you reading when I came home?” And now it sounded as though he was really interested, and didn’t that make her feel all sparkly and alive.

  Not that sitting in a tavern with the most attractive man she’d ever seen—and an earl—wasn’t sparkle-inducing enough.

  “Do you read, my lord?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “Because I do, I mean I can read, of course, but I also love to read. And not just recipes, which as you likely know already, I don’t read at all, but books. I was read
ing Mr. Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers; it is one of my favorites.”

  His face looked as though it was about to break into a smile, and she held her breath waiting for it.

  Drat. No smile, but at least his tone was warm. “I enjoy Mr. Dickens as well. I find reading to be a welcome relief after working all day.”

  Annabelle wrinkled her brow. “I didn’t realize earls did work, I mean, beyond being all earl-y,” she said, hoping this time that he would get the joke or at least acknowledge it.

  He did smile then, and she felt as though fire from the tavern’s fireplace had just leapt out and enveloped her in its warmth. “Perhaps they don’t, but I do. I like working, I like being . . . useful.” The way he said it made it sound as though he was embarrassed about it.

  “I like to work as well. I can’t imagine not working. I mean, I would enjoy a week or so of sitting at home and just reading, but I think I would go mad with boredom.”

  He nodded, as though he agreed—again!—and now she felt practically on fire herself, she was so warm.

  She opened her mouth to continue, but stopped when she heard another voice.

  “Be right there,” the barmaid called. “Two pints?” she asked, nodding toward them, and the earl nodded. But the interruption seemed to make him realize he’d been speaking and even smiling, since his whole self returned to his more somber mien.

  At least she no longer felt as though she might spontaneously combust. Even if she did miss his smile.

  “And the young lady you met at your uncle’s house one of those first evenings. Was she nice?” Miss Tyne’s voice was more subdued than usual, the question sounding as though she wasn’t certain she wished to hear the answer. Unlike all the other questions she’d asked thus far.

  He’d felt, for just a few moments, what it would be like to speak with someone when they had things in common, and not just about an investment opportunity. He wanted to find out what other books she liked, if they shared more than Mr. Dickens in their taste. But she was waiting for his answer, not for more questions. Not that he’d even know how to ask the questions; he wasn’t accustomed to speaking to anyone of common interests.