Rescuing the Earl (The Seven Curses of London Book 3)

by Lana Williams

  “My apologies, my lady,” the butler added with a deep bow.

  “Of course.” Grace was so grateful they had a place to stay that she didn’t care about anything else at the moment.

  “Now then, I assume you’ll be staying for a time.”

  “Yes.” Before Grace could explain their unannounced arrival, the housekeeper nodded.

  “Shall I have Cook prepare luncheon while we see to your rooms?”

  “That would be lovely.” The idea of food of any sort sounded very appealing.

  Mrs. Foley moved to the drawing room doors and opened them wide, continuing to speak as she moved. “We’ll have the house looking right as rain in short order. We haven’t had anyone staying here since...well, since the viscount’s last visit. And it’s been years since we’ve had the pleasure of having children here.” She cast a smile at Matthew who returned it.

  Then she waved a regal hand at the butler who hurried forward to assist her in removing the coverings from the furniture in the large, formal room. As they worked, various chairs, settees, and tables, were revealed, giving an almost cluttered look to the space. Floral wallpaper with rose tones and matching rose drapes gave the room an odd glow. The décor reflected Daniel’s mother’s tastes and wasn’t so different from Witley Manor.

  Grace remembered she hadn’t cared for it during her first visit, nor did she now. She preferred simple décor and cooler, soothing colors. The sooner she made some changes in this room, the better.

  With a deep breath, she gathered her courage, reminding herself that if she wanted to be treated as the lady of the house, she needed to act the part, beginning now. “May we wait in the family drawing room instead?” If she remembered correctly, the room was far more comfortable, less intimidating, and certainly less pink.

  The housekeeper paused mid-stride. “That is an excellent idea, my lady. Much cozier there.” She turned to the butler. “Perhaps you’ll advise Cook that her ladyship would like luncheon as soon as possible while I show them upstairs.”

  Paxton hurried off, his demeanor quite different than what they’d encountered at the front door.

  Grace couldn’t help but smile at the man’s behavior. There could be no doubt that Mrs. Foley was the one truly in charge.

  As they made their way upstairs, Grace breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps things were turning around at last. She could only hope so.

  No. She needed to make it so.

  Tristan spread the news sheets across his desk, all turned to the advertisements section. With a pen, he circled each one that asked for money and appeared suspicious in any way. Unfortunately, his effort to distract himself from thinking of Grace had not yet succeeded. He shook his head, trying to keep his thoughts on the research.

  Children to save. The father of these British-born Protestant children is an elderly gentleman, ruined by competition in business, and past beginning life again; and the mother is in a very precarious state of health.

  The message continued, requesting willing benefactors to send money not to the father, but to an address noted at the bottom of the advertisement so the children might attend boarding school.

  Tristan shook his head. Why did the news sheets allow such advertisements to be placed? Did people actually send money in response?

  He continued his perusal, hoping to find some common element that would point to one or two individuals behind them.

  “What is all this?”

  Tristan looked up to see his brother, Nathaniel, walk into the room, cane in hand. “A bit of a research project, I suppose.” He wasn’t certain if he wanted to share the details of his attempt to make a difference with his brother.

  Nathaniel was a hero, wounded in service to Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, and Tristan doubted his own meager attempts to battle crime in the city could compare to his success.

  “Oh?” Nathaniel, being Nathaniel, approached the table and turned one of the sheets that Tristan had just circled so he could read it. “Thinking of sending this poor family funds?”

  “Heavens, no.” He sighed, deciding it would be easier if he just went ahead and told Nathaniel. “Did you hear what happened to Lord Jackson?”

  “Wasn’t he a friend of father’s?”

  Tristan explained what he’d heard at the opera.

  Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “Unbelievable. The bollocks of some.”

  “Indeed. I was reviewing these advertisements to see if any appeared suspicious, and if they might’ve been placed by the same person.”

  “As in a professional beggar of some sort?”

  “Exactly. Reviewing that chapter in The Seven Curses of London gave me the idea.”

  Nathaniel studied him closely until Tristan shifted under his scrutiny.

  “What?”

  “I am impressed. That is a brilliant idea.”

  Tristan scowled in response, uncomfortable with the praise. “Wait until I see if there is any merit behind it before you say that.”

  “It makes perfect sense.” Nathaniel perused the sheets and pointed out two more advertisements that appeared suspicious, which Tristan circled. “Will you search all these for similar addresses?”

  “That, along with the way they’re worded. Look at these two.” Tristan turned the sheets so his brother might read them. “While they have a different message, there are several phrases that are markedly similar.”

  “I wouldn’t have noticed without you comparing them side by side.” Nathaniel smiled. “Well done.”

  “What are your thoughts on this one?” He pointed to one on a separate news sheet that he’d set aside, unable to decide if it was a scam or not.

  ‘Help, or I perish!’—The advertiser, in his sixty-seventh birthday, was once blessed with a handsome fortune. Drink—he confesses it—has been the cause of his ruin. He still drinks; not now for pleasure and in luxury, but to benumb the gnawing of an aroused conscience.

  The advertisement continued on, suggesting the man could go live with his two sons in Canada who would surely take good care of him if he were only able to raise the funds for the voyage.

  “Unbelievable.” Nathaniel shook his head. “The request is so bold, it’s difficult to determine if it’s real or not.”

  “Hence my hesitation. Then again, if the person is so deep into his cups, would he be able to place this advertisement?”

  “From the way it’s worded, it almost sounds as if a friend placed it for him, but that would be an odd thing for a friend to do. I think it must be a sham.”

  “Agreed.” Tristan circled it and added it to the growing pile.

  “How come I’ve never noticed these types of ploys before?”

  “You haven’t lived in England for some time, and I am fairly certain you don’t have time to read the various news sheets in their entirety.”

  Nathaniel smiled, looking much like a cat that had enjoyed a tasty morsel. “Can’t say that I have. Busy planning a wedding, you know.”

  Tristan gave him a long look. “Takes up a lot of your time, does it?”

  “Does that mean planning yours doesn’t?”

  Tristan didn’t care to answer. He’d nearly forgotten about his betrothal as he’d worked this morning. Not to mention that he wasn’t nearly as happy about his as his brother was.

  Ever since Nathaniel had come upon Miss Letitia Fairchild fighting the cause of neglected children, he’d changed. He’d gone from a gruff, unhappy man to a friendlier, content one.

  Unfortunately, Tristan didn’t know how to speak with either one. The guilt Tristan felt for failing to protect him from their father when Nathaniel was young caused a rift between them that Tristan couldn’t cross.

  Each time he looked at Nathaniel, he remembered the boy he once was, quiet, moving slowly as though to not draw their father’s attention. The resigned look that would cross his face when Father caught sight of him. The hurt little boy that their father had ceaselessly berated. All while Tristan had done nothing.

  Tristan h
adn’t bothered to ask for Nathaniel’s forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it. Nor could he forgive himself.

  Instead of a true relationship, they were more like casual acquaintances. In all honesty, Tristan kept waiting for the day when Nathaniel stopped coming to visit. To his surprise, that day had not yet come.

  And he was grateful for that. Extremely grateful.

  This...uneasy relationship was more than he could ask for yet it wasn’t enough. Much like his life.

  “I think I’ll send a footman to one or two of these addresses to make inquiries and see if he can uncover anything.” Tristan noted one was Prescott Street and another at Model Lodging House, both in Whitechapel.

  “Would you rather Langston make some inquiries instead?” Nathaniel worked with a former police officer who was adept at maneuvering through the rough streets of the East End. Langston had been instrumental in the recent inroads Nathaniel had made—imprisoning a ringleader of thieves who’d also forced young girls into a life of prostitution.

  But having one man arrested did not solve London’s ills. Nathaniel, Langston, and now Viscount Frost all worked toward doing what they could, saving one life at a time and bringing those at fault to justice.

  Tristan hadn’t joined their ranks but hoped to show his support with this project. Perhaps a sense of purpose would ease his own restlessness. “For now, I’ll pursue these leads. If anything interesting arises out of them, I’ll send word.”

  “As you wish. What is this?” He picked up the small decorated box on Tristan’s desk. Paint swirls embellished the outside, and holes perforated it.

  Tristan hadn’t been able to toss away the box in which Matthew had kept his beetle. When he’d gone up to the nursery the night after Grace and Matthew had left, he’d discovered the empty box on a table. True to his word, the boy had set the beetle free. Tristan didn’t care to over-think the reasons he hadn’t been able to discard the box.

  “A reminder of a young boy I met,” he said at last.

  “Interesting.” Nathaniel paused as though hoping Tristan would say more.

  “You don’t happen to know a Daniel who passed away just over a year ago? He was a lord of some sort, and I’d guess he was somewhere between you and me in years. He had a cousin named Charles.” Tristan told himself that once the mystery of Grace and Matthew’s identity was solved, he’d be able to put them both out of his mind. Never mind the doubt that idea held.

  “Not that I can recollect.” He studied Tristan. “Is it important?”

  “It is, actually. If something comes to mind, will you let me know right away?”

  “Of course.” Nathaniel continued to watch him as though expecting him to say more.

  When Tristan held his silence, Nathaniel checked the ornate gold clock on the desk. The one that had been their father’s. Tristan had no idea why he hadn’t replaced it. But the same could be said of most of the other furnishings in the room.

  Tristan shook his head. Who was he trying to fool? That was true with the entire house. His father’s stamp was on every room, but most especially on this one.

  Why bother trying to remove it from the house when that same stamp was on his features, his voice, and even his personality?

  No purpose could be served in fighting the inevitable. The thought depressed him considerably.

  “I must be off,” Nathaniel said as he tapped the clock with a finger.

  “Important plans for the day?”

  “I am picking up Letitia, and we are driving in Hyde Park.”

  Tristan couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. The deep sense of joy Nathaniel had—or rather, radiated—was so different than his previous demeanor that it would take some getting used to.

  Unfortunately, he no longer believed he would ever experience the same fate. The image of Grace passed through his mind, twisting something deep inside. Surely it wasn’t longing. Not when he didn’t think he’d ever see her again.

  He brushed away the brief thought and glanced down at the news sheet once more, ignoring the pang. He didn’t deserve happiness nor did he believe he was capable of it. “Enjoy the day. I’ll advise you if anything of interest comes of my project.”

  Chapter Seven

  “[Acts of Edward VI] Every person able to work, and not willing, and declining a ‘job,’ though for no more tempting wages than his bare meat and drink, was liable to be branded on the shoulder, and any man willing to undertake the troublesome charge might claim the man as his slave for two years.”

  ~The Seven Curses of London

  Soon after Nathaniel took his leave, the sound of a feminine voice echoed in Tristan’s foyer. He groaned in dismay. The only possible female visitors were his mother or his fiancée. He didn’t care to speak with either of them at the moment.

  He gathered up the news sheets and placed them in a drawer, unwilling to discuss his project with anyone else. It would only lead to questions. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that Samantha wasn’t so different from his mother in several respects. Neither would think his research a good idea, nor would they understand why he chose to do it. Heaven forbid if he mentioned that he wanted to locate who was behind the advertisements and hand them over to the police.

  A footman appeared in the doorway. “Lady Samantha to see you, my lord.”

  Before he had the opportunity to respond, she stepped around the servant and into the room. Irritation simmered within him. That seemed to happen quite often in his dealings with her of late.

  “Good day, Adair.” She set her handbag on a chair then tugged off her gloves at the fingertips, plucking each one with a dramatic flair.

  For some reason, that only added to his annoyance. Many of her movements and words were designed to draw attention to herself.

  “And to you.” He nodded politely as he remained standing behind his desk, waiting to see what she wanted. He doubted she was here simply to see him. That was another thing she had in common with his mother. “No maid accompanied you?”

  “I told her to wait in the foyer.” Her eyes narrowed at his coolness, but he didn’t change his demeanor.

  It was important that she know what to expect after they married. He wasn’t about to allow her to change him, and he had the impression she thought she could.

  She placed her gloves on her handbag and came around the side of his desk to stand directly before him. She glanced at the bare polished mahogany surface. “Working hard this morning?”

  He didn’t bother to answer. The sarcastic tone in her voice was one he didn’t appreciate. At all.

  Seeming to realize she’d overstepped herself, she smiled, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes. “I just had to stop and say hello since I was in the area.”

  “Oh?”

  She straightened his cravat and smoothed his lapels. “I’ve missed you.”

  He caught a hint of her rose scent, trying to appreciate this rare moment when they were alone. While some of the things she did or said might annoy him, he had yet to find someone who didn’t.

  Grace’s visage immediately filled his mind. A voice from somewhere deep inside him noted that she hadn’t irritated him once, but surely that was due to the unusual circumstances in which they’d met. Wasn’t it?

  He needed to remember that Samantha was the one he’d asked to become his wife. She was an attractive, willing woman. He was a red-blooded man. That was a simple enough equation.

  When she lifted her mouth in invitation, he took it. Her lips were soft beneath his.

  Maybe too soft.

  Too...wet.

  Too—

  Since when had he become so selective, he wondered, even as he deepened the kiss. He waited, hoping for desire to stop the thoughts circling in his mind before they ruined the moment completely.

  She made a little noise in the back of her throat, and he nearly pulled back, wondering what was wrong. Had that been the sound of desire or was she going to cough?

  Her fingers tangled in the hai
r at the nape of his neck, distracting him from his concern. He placed his hands at her waist, but the bustle fastened to the back of her gown prevented him from feeling anything but the stiffness of the fabric and the bulk of whatever was underneath.

  With more concerted effort, he focused on the kiss, surprised his body wasn’t responding with more enthusiasm. While he’d had his share of women in the past, it had been months since he’d been with anyone. He tried to release all thought, only allowing himself to feel.

  Unbidden, the image of Grace popped into his mind once again. The sweet curve of her cheek, the warmth in her eyes, the sweep of her lashes.

  Her smile.

  Feelings for her flooded through him, causing him to jerk back to stare at Samantha.

  She blinked up at him. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” He didn’t care to discuss how different the idea of Grace in his arms was from the reality of Samantha. How very different. The desire and longing he felt for Grace were so strong that he was stunned by them. “Nothing at all.”

  Samantha bit her bottom lip and tilted her head as she held his gaze. The actions were so deliberate that he had to wonder if she’d practiced them in the mirror. She stepped back, giving his shoulders one last squeeze. “You’ll be at the ball this evening?”

  “I believe so.” As soon as he collected his thoughts enough to remember what ball was being held tonight. The image of Grace was thoroughly embedded in his mind, preventing him from thinking of anything else.

  Before he could determine what he might do about it, Samantha started speaking—at least her lips were moving. If only he could comprehend her words.

  “I do hope your mother is there.”

  That was all he caught at the tail end of what she said.

  Then her eyes lit with a familiar glimmer that foretold she was about to launch into her favorite activity—gossip.

  “Did you hear that Lord Jackson has declared he’s given up all his philanthropic ventures?” She shook her head. “Foolish old man, falling for the ruse of a young girl in need of money.”