Earl of Grayson: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club)

by Amanda Mariel

  “Well, how did it go with the solicitor? What was it all about?” Madge's thick Scottish burr cut through the intensely silent room.

  “My grandfather has passed on.” Alistair continued to watch the poor beast.

  Madge scoffed. “Good riddance to that bastard. Were it no' for him, yer da and I could've been happy. He put us against one another.”

  Alistair bit back a long-suffering sigh. He didn't want to hear the story of it again, not today. “I've inherited his earldom.”

  Madge coughed out a wheezing laugh. Finally, Alistair put his back to the window and faced his mother. Though age and hard years had left her face creased, her hair was the same shade of luminous red that had caught his father's eye. Her cheeks were flushed with mirth and her blue eyes sparkled with it. “Ye canna be serious.” The smile wilted somewhat and she straightened her skinny frame. “Well, ye said no, aye?”

  “I did. But as anticipated, I have no choice.” Alistair steeled himself between the clash of his own blood which ran in equal parts English and Scottish and said the truth of it for the first time since he'd spoken with the solicitor late that morning. “I am now the Earl of Benton.”

  The blue of his mother's eyes went sharp with reproach. “One can always say no.”

  “This is not one of those instances.” Alistair folded his hands behind his back and resisted the urge to let his attention go to the window once more. “Were I to say no, I would face the wrath of the king.”

  “An English king,” Madge hissed. “I dinna care a fat toad what the English king wants.”

  “This will be of great benefit to you,” Alistair continued, intentionally ignoring her treasonous remark. Time had taught him reprimands for such things fell on deaf ears with Madge. “It affords us the opportunity to repair Lochslin Castle, which sorely requires a great many things. Whisky smuggling doesn't provide nearly enough—”

  “The whisky smuggling.” Madge snapped upright. “Ye'll still be doing it, aye?”

  Somewhere down the hall, another inhabitant of the rickety inn slammed a door and stomped away. If only Alistair could be so lucky as to readily escape. Instead he drew a deep breath in the hopes of bringing in some patience with it.

  “I cannot run whisky any longer, Madge. It is considered treason.”

  “By the bloody English king,” she muttered.

  “And I could lose my life for it.”

  “So ye'll give up one of yer grandda's legacy for the other?” Her lips puckered as if she had something bitter lodged in her mouth. “Yer Scottish ancestry for yer English.”

  The final threads of Alistair's tolerance were shredding under his mother's insistent refusal to listen. “I do not have a choice,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “We'll see what can be done when we get back to Scotland.” Madge stopped speaking abruptly and slowly angled her face to Alistair. “Ye will be coming home to Scotland, aye?” Her tone was softer, hesitant. If he didn't know Madge so well, he might have even assumed she was frightened.

  His chest drew tight. For all Madge's prickly exterior, within she was a fierce mother set on protecting her only child. And what he would say next might possibly break her heart.

  “I will not be going to Scotland.”

  The proud stance Madge had displayed crumpled. “The bastard has won,” she whispered. “He tried to steal ye from me when ye were but a lad. I insisted ye come home despite yer da's protest because he dinna see it. He dinna see it. But I did. That English whoreson meant to take ye from me, to sway ye to yer English side. And now he's won.”

  Alistair inwardly cringed at her words. His grandfather had wanted what was best for him. In truth, those years at Eton had afforded him friendships he would have never been able to find in the wilds of Scotland at Lochslin Castle. Those would be integral in his assuming the earldom smoothly and entering the ton. “It was not a battle, Madge. He—”

  “He made ye full English is what he did.” She waved a bony hand at him. “Look at ye, with yer fine English coat and yer crisp speech and yer unaffected demeanor. And in an instant ye’re an English earl, living on English soil.” She sniffled. “Ye're lost to me, son. I've lost ye.”

  Alistair handed his mother his handkerchief, which she deftly pushed away. “Madge, I am still Scottish.” He gestured to his kilt with exasperation. “I proudly wear the Munro colors. I will eventually be home to assist you in overseeing the repairs to Lochslin and ensure you are well.” Outside the window, a small group of urchins circled the dog. The creature had curled in on itself with its tail tucked between its legs.

  “Leave me,” Madge said with wounded vehemence. “I'll smuggle the whisky without ye. I'll repair Lochslin without ye. I'll live my life without ye.”

  Alistair twisted from the window, pulled by the weight of his heavy heart. “Madge, I—”

  A vase flew past his head and slammed into the wall where it shattered. Alistair jerked to the side as another article hurtled toward his face, narrowly avoiding being struck.

  “Leave me.” Madge snatched up a metal cup from the bedside table and drew it back.

  Alistair knew too well how her tantrums went and strode across the room at a clipped pace. He opened the door and paused. “I'll always be your son, Madge.”

  He didn't know what made him say it. Some deep childhood memory for the woman who would rock him in her arms when he had night terrors, and had fought for him with the force of a lion. He was aware that in her own twisted way, this rage was driven by the fear of losing him. Madge never did deal well with hurt.

  Perhaps that was why he'd taken the time to say it, risking the integrity of his face as the cup came hurtling through the air at him. He closed the door in time for the weight of the projectile to thunk solidly against it.

  A scream sounded from the other side, wild and raw. It tore into his heart, but there was no reasoning with Madge. Not when she was like this. He treaded down the narrow stairs, ignoring the wobbling banister which had more possibility of upsetting one's balance than solidifying it, and remembered the dog.

  He quickened his pace and exited the building to find the boys tossing rocks in the direction of the beast. It did not snarl and snap at them as others might have done. No, it merely cringed deeper into itself as if attempting to make itself disappear. Alistair was well acquainted with that feeling, one of wishing to simply become invisible.

  “Get on with you,” Alistair said in a low, warning tone. “Leave the creature be.”

  A boy with a mop of shaggy brown hair surveyed Alistair up and down. “We'll do what we want.” He sneered, revealing a missing front tooth, and lobbed a stone at Alistair. The bit of rock sank into the mud at Alistair's feet.

  “I said get on with ye,” he snarled, the Scottish burr of his youth thickening his accent in his rage. For it was not only the boy who he was angry with, it was the injustice of the starving beast, the cowardice of children pitching stones at a defenseless animal, and it was Madge and her damned stubbornness.

  The boys scowled and ran from him, scattering in multiple directions like vermin. A soft whimpering rose came from the ground and a pair of liquid brown eyes gazed imploringly up at Alistair.

  He reached down and patted the dog's wet, matted head. The beast nestled closer to him, desperate for affection. Alistair looked up the front of the inn to Madge's window where all had gone quiet.

  At least with the beast at his side, he could help. Madge was too obstinate to listen to reason.

  “Come on, then.” He made his way down the muddy street to the better part of town. A glance confirmed the dog had not moved. Alistair whistled and the creature cocked his head, the pink of its tongue protruding from the side of its mouth.

  “Come on,” Alistair repeated and waved his hand.

  This time the beast did not hesitate. It sprinted to him at full tilt, its muddy brown ears flapping about its head. And together, the two of them, neither one cut from the fine cloth of London society, made their
way into a world that would otherwise have cast them readily aside.

  Chapter 1

  June 1817

  Bedfordshire, England

  Emma Thorne’s maid was dead. It was obvious based on the awkward angle of her neck, in the trail of blood drawing a vivid line down her chin and the pool of it welling from underneath her.

  Emma remained at the young woman’s side, holding the still-warm body. Shock had kept her scream silent thus far, but the pressure of its insistence blossomed in the back of her throat. A hand clapped over her mouth and her scream fled on a gasp.

  Emma's uncle had asked her to replace a book on the shelf in the library as she'd left the room. Jenny, her lady's maid, had offered to do it as she was off on her way to visit her parents in the village. The offer of kindness had been the young woman's demise.

  “Don't make a sound, my lady.” A familiar male voice murmured in Emma's ear.

  She tried to swing around, to meet the eyes of Hammonds, the butler she'd known for the whole of her life, for what could possess him to tell her to keep from screaming?

  “Blink to show you understand what I'm telling you,” he said in a low voice. “It's a matter of life and death, you see.”

  Emma blinked and his hand came away.

  “Come to the kitchen.” He stood with a furtive glimpse into the hall. “With haste, my lady.” He softened his tone. “If you please.”

  “And leave her here?” Emma whispered in horror.

  Hammonds grimaced and nodded.

  Emma hesitated, her fingers curled in the damp fabric of her maid's gown. It was of a pretty sprigged muslin Emma had given to her the prior year.

  “Do you not notice she looks similar to you?” Hammonds asked.

  True, the maid wore the frock once belonging to Emma and her brown hair had been twisted into a series of braids at the nape of her neck, the same way Emma often wore hers. A terrifying jolt of ice-cold fear shot down Emma's spine.

  She drew away in horror, releasing the maid and allowing Hammonds to help her to her feet. Blood streaked brilliant red down the front of her gown. Jenny's blood.

  Oh God, Jenny.

  Hammonds pulled at Emma with surprisingly strong arms, hauling her to the kitchen. “Your uncle,” he said. “He's been unhappy with your decision not to wed his son. As he’s become more insistent, you’ve been more resistant.”

  Emma’s brain worked to process what she'd seen, what Hammonds was saying, what it all meant. The cloying odor of gore clung in her nose, metallic with fear and death.

  Hammonds thrust her into the warmth of the kitchen. The cook looked up sharply, his hands buried in a ball of dough.

  “Already?” Monsieur Dubois drew his hands free and wiped the excess flour onto the front of his apron.

  “Jenny is dead.” Hammonds released his hold on Emma and raced across the large room to a series of pots stacked neatly against a back wall.

  Dubois uttered a curse and moved around the table. He stopped short and went wide-eyed with horror at Emma’s gown.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  “She fell from the ladder in the library.” Emma twisted the delicate emerald and pearl bracelet around her wrist, the one that had belonged to her mother before her death nearly two decades prior. “She's dead.” Her voice clogged with emotion and tears burned in her eyes.

  The Frenchman loosed a fresh string of curses.

  “Cease your blasphemy and be useful,” Hammonds said in an uncharacteristically impatient tone. “It will not be long until they discover the body is not that of Miss Emma.”

  The butler pushed a velvet bag into her hands. “Take this and leave. Go as far from here as you can and do not return for another month.”

  In a month, she would be five-and-twenty, of age to no longer require the guardianship of her uncle. The wealthy life to which he'd grown accustomed when her father died not long after her twentieth birthday would cease. She’d refused to marry her cousin, his son. Apparently, he had devised other means to secure her wealth.

  The bright streak of crimson on her gown called her attention once more. He had meant to kill her, only he'd taken Jenny’s life by accident instead.

  “Take this as well.” Dubois thrust a misshapen sack into her free hand. A knot at the top secured the contents within. “In case you need food. It will last a few days if you use it sparingly.”

  “And this?” she asked, regarding the velvet bag.

  “It is the money we have been able to save for you.” Hammonds lowered his head reverently. “And includes our own personal savings.”

  She shook her head, not understanding and certainly not willing to accept. Before she could refuse, Hammonds set a hand over hers, securing the bag in her palm.

  “Miss Emma, we would pay that amount a thousand times over to ensure your safety.” Hammonds cast her a beseeching expression. “Please take it. Stay safe for the next month and—”

  “Hammonds,” a voice from somewhere in the home bellowed with rage.

  Emma started at the sound, her nerves on high alert as much as they were raw with emotion - with loss, with love, with fear.

  “Get you gone and Godspeed, Miss.” Hammonds bowed low and left, taking time to carefully close the door.

  “You must go.” Dubois gently pushed her in the direction of the servants’ entrance at the rear of the kitchen. “To the stables, away from here.”

  The heavy fall of boots on the carpeted ground came from outside the kitchen within the house.

  “Now,” he hissed and shoved her outside.

  Emma stood, dazed by the radiant sunlight and by the whirl of what had transpired. She gritted her teeth. They had sacrificed everything for her.

  It was that thought which spurred her and made her run to the stables, as Dubois had suggested.

  She ran on legs she could not feel, legs which did not seem strong enough to support her. And yet they carried her to the elegant row of stables along the rear of the property.

  While chaos reigned in the house, the stable was impossibly silent and still. Emma's ragged breath rasped from her throat, loud in the quiet.

  The stable boy was not about, and for that she was glad. She would not want more of her servants implicated. Not after what they'd already done to aid her. Surely what they had done put them in considerable danger. The very notion gave her pause. She slipped the purse into her pocket.

  “Let's see if her horse is in the stall.” Conrad's deep voice came from outside, indicating her cousin was merely several feet away. “If she was on her horse, she'll be much farther.”

  Her heart plunged into her stomach. Fear dictated her actions, propelling her into Honey's stall, forcing her to climb upon the horse's blonde bare back. She pressed the bag of food between her stomach and the horse's large body as she leaned forward and hissed her command in Honey's ear.

  They burst from the stable at a powerful speed, practically knocking over the lanky form of Conrad and her uncle.

  Conrad pointed dumbly at her. “There she is.”

  If they said more, their words were lost in the pounding of Honey's hooves upon the dirt-packed earth and the slamming of Emma's heartbeat. They would chase her though - of that she was certain. And their horses were significantly faster.

  Blast.

  She bounced about Honey's back, her hands lost in the grip of her horse’s white mane as she held on for dear life. The bag of food jostled free and disappeared from Honey's back. Were Emma not about to suffer to the same fate, she might have tried to grab for rough sack as it fell away. As it was, she could scarcely maintain her desperate hold. Even still, she knew without a shadow of a doubt, she would not be able to ride in this manner for long.

  Rather than direct Honey to the village nearly two miles away, she steered her horse in the direction of a nearby manor, one often rented out for house parties. If it were empty, as she hoped it might be, she could use it as a place to hide, to decide her next move before her uncle and Co
nrad could find her.

  She neared the large yellow house with its dark green shutters, and her heart fell. Several people milled about with their horses. Clearly, the manor had been rented out.

  She slowed her horse, weighing her options. If only her pulse could slow as readily as her steed. As it was, her heart galloped with such power, it threatened to choke her.

  She did a quick survey behind her and gave a cry of despair. There in the distance were two riders racing toward her.

  She jerked Honey to a stop and leapt from the horse, running with blind speed in the direction of the massive house. The sack of coins in her pocket thwacked and bounced brutally against her thigh, but she paid it no mind. It was of slight consequence considering the threat of danger.

  Those renting the property would most surely find Honey and see her well cared for. If Emma was lucky, her uncle would assume she'd fallen off the horse's glossy back and had become lost in the foliage between the two massive manors.

  Emma peered about, confirming no one had seen her, and reached for a window. It clicked under her hand, locked. In fact, all the windows and doors had been bolted tight. She gave a dejected cry and darted off to the one place she might find refuge - the stable.

  The house party be damned. If Alistair did not go to Scotland to aid Madge in her botched whisky smuggling venture, they both might end up dead. Her, skewered through by some brigand's sword and him dangling from a rope.

  It was a recklessly precarious situation requiring immediate action on his part, especially considering the time it had taken the missive to reach him. Cold fear fissured through him. He could only rush as quickly as he could and hope he was not too late.

  He strolled from the manor the Wicked Earls had rented and made his way to the stables to tell the lad there to ready the horses and a carriage. Surely there was some servant to do the task for Alistair, but he wasn't much in the mood to wait when he could bloody well do it himself.