The Earl's Complete Surrender

by Sophie Barnes

  “I cannot believe that you are compromising your principles for a woman. You, who has always been so opposed to involving others in your work because of what happened to your mother.”

  James held his stare for a long, drawn-­out moment. Hainsworth was right, but James had made his decision. “Lady Newbury stays. I need her help with the journal.”

  “Are you sure you’re not allowing an entirely different need to motivate you as far as she’s concerned?”

  “This conversation is over,” James bit out. Downing the remainder of his brandy, he nodded toward Hainsworth’s leg. “Let’s take a look at that wound.”

  “I feel as though we’re not much better off than when we arrived in London a ­couple of days ago,” James said as he glanced toward Chloe a short while later. Hainsworth’s words from earlier echoed in his mind. James knew he was right. Where Lady Newbury was concerned, it was about so much more than just the journal. He thrust the thought aside and tried to focus. “In fact, we’ve had quite an ordeal and with nothing much to show for it. On the contrary, we’ve lost two men.”

  “I know,” Lady Newbury murmured. “But thanks to Lambert, we now have the key to unlocking the journal. Once that is done, we’ll know exactly who The Electors are.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  She turned toward him, eyes bright with something indefinable. “I believe it is.” Pushing a piece of paper toward him, she said, “Look, I’ve already decoded a large portion of the Electorial Objective at the beginning.” She paused while he studied the text. “These men consider themselves heroes, Woodford; righ­teous warriors fighting for the salvation of Europe as a whole.”

  “That’s why they’re so dangerous,” he said, handing the paper back to her. “Their belief in a higher cause is so strongly ingrained in them that they are willing to do whatever it takes in order to realize their goal. Blake had to know that his chance of survival against three armed men would be slim.”

  “Yet he let you live . . .” Her voice trailed off. Steepling her fingers, she pressed the tips against her lips in contemplation. “He could have shot you instead of Lambert, but he didn’t.”

  “The men who followed me the other day had every opportunity to kill me as well, but they chose not to.”

  Lady Newbury nodded. “I suspect that whoever is in charge of these attacks not only wants to acquire the journal, but also plans to keep you alive.”

  He blew out a deep breath, more confused than ever. “Why? What would be the purpose?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps they want to interrogate you—­find out what you’ve discovered and how much of that information you have shared.”

  “What about you? Those men at the inn could easily have killed you with one shot to your stomach.”

  “They were just hired criminals, happy to steal the journal in order to claim their reward but unwilling to risk their lives. I’m sure they knew that you and your coachman would have killed them if they’d chosen such a drastic course of action.”

  Rising, James began pacing the floor. “What if the journal isn’t enough?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lord Duncaster wrote it prior to his death. That’s more than twenty years ago. Whoever killed him and your grandfather might be long dead. The same may be true of the man who murdered my parents.” He shook his head, feeling suddenly discouraged.

  “You might be right. But if they’re dead, their Electorial memberships will have been passed on to their children. Once I find the names of the families involved, we’ll have something concrete to go on and then you can move forward, alert the authorities and have them apprehended.”

  Unable to help himself, he stared at her, touched by the beauty of her, her conviction in him and the emotional force of her words. He met her gaze, and his heart trembled a little.

  Schooling his features, James nodded slowly. “You’re absolutely right.” He paused. “I’m going to go and check on Hainsworth—­see how his leg is doing. When I return, we’ll set our minds to the task of solving this problem.”

  Her lips parted as if she meant to say something else. He waited, but when she failed to speak, he turned and left, uncertain of how to proceed not only with The Electors, but with her. He wanted her, by God, but he would never have her unless she realized how different their relationship would be from the one she’d had previously.

  When he came back several minutes later, he found her sitting at the desk, more or less as he’d left her. The journal and notebook were both spread out before her, but she wasn’t studying either one. Instead, her chin rested upon the heel of her hand, her elbow propped upon the desk. The pose made her look as though she was caught in a daydream.

  “Care to share your thoughts?” Drawn by her radiance, he went toward her.

  “How many women have you kissed?” she asked him softly.

  He came to an immediate halt, not entirely sure that he’d heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  She turned her head slowly toward him, then lowered her hand and leaned back against her chair, leveling him with her green eyes. “How many women have you kissed?”

  Feeling much like a cornered rabbit, James moved slowly to the chair opposite hers and lowered himself into it. “Why do you ask?” She did not look piqued or accusatory in any way—­not even the slightest bit jealous. So what the devil had prompted such an intimate inquiry?

  “Just answer the question.”

  He stared at her, and it struck him that this might be her way of testing him. One thing was certain—­he suddenly felt nervous—as if maintaining any kind of relationship with Lady Newbury depended on him giving her the right answer. Except he wasn’t quite sure what that would be. Drawing a deep breath, he settled on the truth. “Thirteen.” He remembered each and every one of them perfectly.

  She was silent a moment before asking, “Did you feel affection toward any of them?”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “Because I’m curious.”

  “Well stop being curious,” he told her gruffly. “We have work to do.”

  Silently, she looked away, her gaze dropping to the books in front of her. She seemed to study them awhile and then suddenly asked, “Of the thirteen, how many have you bedded?”

  James shot to his feet and strode across the floor. “Jesus!” Halting, he looked back at her, noting the wary expression in her eyes and her rigid posture. He raked his fingers through his hair and bit back an angry retort. When he finally spoke again, his words were measured. “A lady doesn’t ask such questions of any man.”

  Her eyes met his, fierce with determination. “You’re right, but it occurred to me that you know of my previous experience and so I thought . . .”

  “You thought what? That I would confide in you about such matters?”

  “I know it must seem like an outrageous request. What I thought, or rather hoped, was that you might open up to me as I have opened up to you.”

  He was clenching his jaw so tightly together that his teeth began to hurt. “I did so when I told you about my parents and why it’s so important for me to uncover The Electors.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry I asked.” Leaning forward, she appeared to show great interest in the contents of the notebook.

  James willed himself to relax. Returning to his seat, he watched her work. Her faith in men had been shattered by her husband and lately by Scarsdale as well. Both had betrayed her. “Twelve,” he found himself saying. Perhaps if he were completely honest and open with her about everything, she might agree to be more than just friends when all of this was over.

  Raising her head, she looked directly at him. “Were you fond of them?”

  Her insecurity was palpable and he realized at that moment not only how important her question was, but how signif
icant his answer would be. Because what she was really saying was, you’re important to me, but I’m afraid. I need to know that your heart is free. He nodded, knowing that he would have to trust her in order for her to trust him. “There was one in particular.” He saw her eyes sharpen in response to his confession. She didn’t like the answer, but rather than stop him, she seemed to wait for him to continue, so he did. “She wasn’t my first lover, but she and I had known each other since we were children and . . .” He paused. He’d never told anyone this story, and telling it now to Lady Newbury, was proving far more difficult than he’d expected.

  “She was your friend?”

  “The daughter of Papa’s head groomsman. Her name was Isabella. She and her parents shared a cottage on the estate and since we were of a similar age and I had no siblings, we played a great deal together as children. After my parents died, I saw very little of her, though I did visit once a year. Hainsworth insisted that it was important for me to stay in touch with the staff at the estate I’d inherited, and to see how my steward was managing things.”

  “And then?”

  “One year when I returned, I discovered that Isabella had gotten sick.” He struggled against the chill that threatened to creep inside his chest. “She was only fifteen years of age and destined to die within a few months from an abnormal swelling in her abdomen—­a tumor, the doctor said.”

  Chloe placed her hand over his. “So you . . . ?”

  “She wanted to know what it was to live, and I obliged her.”

  Silence descended upon them like a thick woolen blanket. They sat like that for a while until James grew weary of the sensation and said, “The rest were different—­mistresses I kept out of necessity more than anything else. Eventually, when I became more specialized in my profession, I gave them up, settling instead for the occasional courtesan.”

  “You’ve sacrificed a great deal for your profession and with good reason,” she said. “Have you ever thought about giving it up and living a normal life?”

  “And do what?” he asked, unwilling to confess his most recent contemplations.

  She averted her gaze. “I don’t know,” she said, confirming that she wasn’t quite ready to meet him half way yet.

  “How’s the transcript coming along?” Hains­worth asked while they ate their lunch the following day. Woodford had gone out to fetch some food and had returned with minced-­meat pies, a selection of vegetables, some eggs, cheese and two freshly baked loaves of bread.

  “We’re definitely making progress,” Chloe said. She’d worked until three in the morning when Woodford had finally insisted that she get some rest, but she’d been up again at eight.

  “We haven’t uncovered any names yet,” Woodford said, putting a slice of tomato in his mouth, “but we now have concrete evidence that The Electors helped Napoleon rise to power and that they were behind the assassination of King Gustav of Sweden.”

  “It says so in the journal?” Hainsworth asked with surprise.

  Chloe nodded. “There are very detailed accounts of how they made it happen.”

  Hainsworth blinked. “Their level of influence continues to amaze me.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Chloe said. She took a sip of her wine. “How’s your leg doing?”

  “Better. How long do you suppose it will take before you find out who the members of The Electors are?” he asked, addressing Woodford.

  “It’s difficult to say,” Woodford replied. “If they’re mentioned, it will be within the context of a paragraph. There isn’t an actual list for us to focus on first, so we have no choice but to work our way through it from beginning to end.”

  “I believe we’re looking at another ­couple of days’ work,” Chloe said. Finishing her meal, she set down her knife and fork and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “If you’ll excuse me, I would like to get back to it now.”

  “Of course,” Woodford said. He moved to rise. “I’ll join you.”

  Hainsworth placed a staying hand upon his arm. “Have a drink with me first. Perhaps if we go over all the details of what’s happened again, one of us will remember something significant that might be of some use to us.”

  Woodford hesitated a moment. “I’ll get the brandy,” he said. Turning to Chloe, he added, “I’ll join you in the study shortly.”

  Leaving them to enjoy their after dinner drinks, Chloe returned to the study on her own, poured herself a small sherry and sank down onto the chair behind the desk. Retrieving a fresh piece of paper, she then dipped her quill in ink and wrote down the next word from the text. Below it, she wrote the letters she’d found so far, until only two spaces remained. She studied the word. _old. Based on the context, it was probably meant to say told.

  The sound of glass unexpectedly shattering sent a jolt straight through her. It reminded her of when she was little and one of the maids dropped a crystal vase on the stairs. Spinning around, she accidentally knocked her glass onto the floor, breaking it as well. “Woodford!” Her voice ricocheted through the air the moment she saw the men climbing through the broken window behind her. Leaping to her feet, she snatched up a letter opener and hurried toward the door of the parlor.

  A hand grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back and throwing her off balance. Tumbling into her assailant, she stabbed at him with the letter opener, thrusting it as deep as it would go the moment she realized she’d struck her mark. A roar of agony rose from his throat and he shoved her aside, straight into the arms of his accomplice who was quick to place a knife against her throat.

  “Don’t hurt her!”

  A hand clamped down over her mouth, preventing her from calling out again. “Or what?” the man asked as a third man climbed through the window.

  Chloe’s eyes widened with surprise. Scarsdale!

  “I’ll slit you open,” Scarsdale said, holding up a sword.

  The man she’d stabbed was leaning against the desk, groaning in between a series of curses.

  “I don’t think so. You and I are in this together,” said the man who was holding Chloe.

  “What are you talking about?” Scarsdale asked as he stepped further into the room.

  “Just find the journal and the notebook, Scarsdale, and let’s get out of here.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Woodford asked appearing in the doorway with Hainsworth by his side. His eyes met Chloe’s, sharp with fear. “Let her go.” He spoke in a low and dangerous, tone.

  “Will do, as soon as we get what we came for,” the man holding Chloe insisted.

  “I see that Lambert was wrong about you, Scarsdale,” Woodford bit out. “You are an Elector.”

  “A what?” Scarsdale asked.

  The man with the stab wound gathered the books and scattered paper lying on the desk. “I believe this is it,” he wheezed.

  “Put that down right now or I’ll shoot,” Woodford warned, raising a pistol. He muttered something inaudible to Hainsworth who also raised a pistol.

  The man with the leg wound moved as if to proceed in Scarsdale’s direction and shots immediately exploded within the confines of the room. Chloe fell back, dragged down by the man who’d been holding her. A rush of footsteps and anxiously spoken words followed. Strong arms lifted her upward, allowing her to see what had happened.

  The man she’d stabbed was exactly where he’d been before, still leaning against the desk, but his eyes had widened with shock as he stared at the floor. Following his line of vision, Chloe saw that the man who’d been holding her had been shot in the forehead. Swallowing the nausea that rose up her throat, she allowed her gaze to travel across the floor to where Scarsdale was lying, gasping for breath while blood flowed from a wound in his chest.

  “No,” she whispered, shoving away from Woodford’s grasp and rushing over to Scarsdale. Lowering herself to her knees, she stared down at his twisted features
. “Why?”

  “I . . . nothing wrong,” he managed.

  She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “How can you say that?”

  Firm hands tried to pull her up but she pushed them back. “Let go of me,” she told Hainsworth. She heard Woodford say something, but couldn’t make out what it was. Hainsworth released her and she leaned closer to Scarsdale.

  “I . . . I saw these men attack . . . came to save you,” he said. His words were growing weaker.

  “Why would you be here if you’re not one of them?”

  “Note. From you. Changed your mind.” His head lulled to one side. “Accept my—­”

  “What’s he saying?” Woodford asked.

  “Nothing useful, I’ll wager,” Hainsworth muttered.

  “Your what?” Chloe asked Scarsdale.

  “My proposal,” he rasped.

  Chloe shook her head. This made no sense at all. Taking Scarsdale’s hand between her own, she allowed the tears to fall. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.” Whether he was one of The Electors or not, she’d considered him a close friend until recently. Watching him die like this, was the most difficult thing she’d ever had to go through.

  “Allow me to escort you upstairs,” Woodford eventually said, interrupting her thoughts.

  Chloe blinked. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, clutching Scarsdale’s lifeless hand. Her entire body trembled as she got to her feet with Woodford’s assistance. “Where’s the other man? The one I stabbed?”

  “Hainsworth helped me tie him to a chair in the dining room and is currently there with him, questioning him about the events that took place.”

  “I didn’t realize,” she murmured, her eyes meeting his.

  “You’re in shock,” he told her. “I need to get you out of here and away from all of this.”