The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London

by Charis Michaels

  “Of this I am very sure.” Piety sighed, toeing the weeds of the garden with her boot. “My mother doesn’t want me. All she wants is the money. American dollars. Ready currency for ready spending. She’s struck a deal with the Limpetts. If one of them manages to marry me, she and the husband will divide my money. They’ll want nothing tied up in property, of course, and certainly not a property gutted by carpenters.” She looked up and smiled a sad, tired smile.

  Piety shook her head, gathering up her pail and basket. “I gave her my own house, you know. My father willed our New York house entirely to me. It is a lovely home filled with beautiful things, as she well knows. It took her less than a week to install the stocking king and his reptilian spawn throughout—and then to make designs on me. That is when I decided to come here. To select a new home for myself, as far away—and as difficult to wrench away—as possible. I gave myself three months in which to get my affairs in order and then stole away in the middle of the night.”

  She jostled the provisions, seeking a better grip. “So there you have it.” She glanced up. “Please believe me when I say that I cannot, will not, wait.”

  Jocelyn nodded. It was a terrible tale; impossible, very sad. A greedy mother; an undesired match—or matches—so much money and a young woman’s freedom at stake. Still, the plan she described? It could not be.

  Marissa ambled up with a second broom and tipped the handle in Jocelyn’s direction. Jocelyn strained around her rags to receive it and leaned in toward Piety. “Assuming you can convince the earl, himself, about this, er, passage,” she whispered, “what will his family say? His friends? The marchioness believes he has released the staff, but surely not everyone has been let go. The gossip of only one chambermaid could cause a scandal from which you might not recover.”

  “Oh, the earl lives here alone,” Piety said, apparently not caring if the maid overheard. “That’s been the one lucky piece. And so far, the only staff I’ve discerned is a lone serving boy, very loyal. If the old earl had to die—may God rest his soul—then he has been replaced by the best-possible relation for my situation. A reclusive bachelor with no family or friends. He may be a little inflexible, but aren’t we all? Before we’ve been made to see?”

  Piety resumed her march across the garden. “Shall we?”

  Jocelyn watched her go, watched Marissa follow—clearly the maid was wholly on her side—and watched her own new, exciting future disappear, too. Words formed in her throat to call after them, but no sound would come.

  “But if the earl is not here?” Jocelyn managed to ask when they reached Falcondale’s kitchen door.

  “Oh, he’s gone; you said so yourself, and thank goodness for that. But we shall call upon his boy, Joseph. Marissa? Have you met Lord Falcondale’s manservant, Joseph?”

  Jocelyn looked at Marissa, realization dawning. Her service as a maid was slow and begrudging, but she was pretty and young, with powder-blonde hair and blue eyes that now swept down in a coy flutter. Thin, too; lithe rather than underfed. It was a delicate sort of beauty, likely to inspire thoughts of rescue and heroics in certain young men.

  Piety knocked on the earl’s kitchen door with one hand and shoved Marissa to the forefront with the other. They heard footsteps. The latch was thrown. A young man, no more than fifteen, stared at the collected women in the garden.

  “Hello, Joseph!” said Piety.

  “ ’Ullo, miss?” The boy sounded uncertain.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb, but would you believe there are matters of utmost importance to which I desperately need to attend upstairs? In my house? I was wondering if you could be so kind as to grant us entry. It’s just the three of us, and we hoped to slip through the shared passage.”

  He studied them with wide, worried eyes and then looked over his shoulder and back again. He stammered, “Lord Falcondale said that—”

  “Have you met my new maid, Marissa?” Piety asked, nudging the girl forward.

  With an alacrity Jocelyn had never seen Marissa apply to housework, the girl instantly affected the look of near collapse, struggling under the weight of the basket of food and pail of soap that she had carried effortlessly across two gardens just moments before.

  Joseph lunged to relieve her of the basket.

  “Thank you,” Marissa said, her voice husky.

  Hesitating only a moment more, the boy unburdened Marissa of the pail and moved out of the way, allowing the three of them to pass.

  Heart pounding, hands tightly gripping her stack of cloth, Jocelyn followed Piety, who followed the girl. Her shoulders trembled and her feet felt light, but, God help her, Jocelyn was unable to turn back.

  Piety walked straight to a staircase, chattering to Joseph. At her side, Marissa drifted along with an expression of endurance and longing.

  If nothing else, at least the earl’s house seemed vacant, Jocelyn thought. But she cringed at the passing of each open door, half expecting a butler or housekeeper or a countess to pop out.

  The top of the stair was just as deserted as the bottom, and the boy led the way down the landing, around a corner, and into an empty room with a small door at the far end.

  The “passage.” It was an elfin channel that extended no more than five feet through unfinished masonry and exposed brick into the dusty interior of a bedroom beyond. Judging by the size and Piety’s comments about her plans for the room, this was the master bedchamber. It was to be Piety’s bedroom.

  His house connects to her bedroom?

  Jocelyn winced, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe.

  Piety appeared unfazed and ducked through. Marissa relieved Joseph of her provisions with a bashful smile and followed. Jocelyn had no choice but to stoop and cross, wobbling in the cramped, uneven space with her arms full of fabric and the extra broom. When they reached the other side, Joseph could be seen standing, bewildered and empty-handed, in the previous room.

  “Thank you so much, Joseph,” Piety called back at the boy. “We shouldn’t bother you again until late in the day. When the house is, shall we say, quiet, we will have you slip us out again, all right? If I require anything at all, I shall send Marissa.”

  Jocelyn heard him croak something just as Piety whipped the door shut tight.

  “Well,” Piety said, dusting off. “That was an unpleasant bit of dishonesty, but I dare say it was worth it. Now, let us do our best to pull the shutters off of these windows and open them up to the world. Let us get a look at this place!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Trevor needed a woman.

  Not a beautiful woman. Or a docile woman. Or even a young woman—although, he was willing to pay more for healthy, limber, and happy in her work.

  Cleverness? Also not a concern. Indeed, it was better that she not be particularly bright. His new neighbor was clever. Quick. Diverting. And look where that got him: riding off to spend money that he did not have for the affections of a woman he did not know. It was a sordid business in which he rarely engaged and was loath to participate even now. And why? Well, the only reason he could fathom was that it had been far too long since he’d known the body-calming and brain-settling clarity of release. He needed a woman.

  He’d been in England for what? Three weeks. He knew few people in London—none of them women—and he wished to know even fewer. In Greece, there had been women. Women of a certain age, a certain attitude, a certain situation.

  But even with the Grecian women, it had been a while. Things had been complicated—his mother’s death, the earldom, and the inheritance. By the time he’d reconciled himself to losing a mother and gaining a title, he’d sailed for England.

  Where he knew no women.

  Until Miss Piety Grey had popped through his wall. Smelling good, looking even better, and provoking him.

  And the last thing Trevor needed was to be provoked.

  After passing a disturbingly sleepless night thrashing around in his bed, he reasoned that he could either spend the rest of the day agonizing about t
he loveliness of Miss Grey, the proximity of Miss Grey, or the unconventional familiarity and boundary-averse nature of Miss Grey.

  Or he could locate an available courtesan and rut himself into clear-headed, focused, satisfaction.

  “Trevor, thank God,” called a panting voice behind him, breaking his revelry, “I’ve been searching for you for an hour.”

  “Go away, Joseph,” Trevor said, clipping up the steps of Madame Joie’s discreet bordello on the edge of St. James.

  “Can’t. I’ve done something awful.”

  Trevor stopped short of knocking on Madame Joie’s door and turned to the boy, trying to decipher the guilt that hung heavily on his face. “What awful thing?”

  Joseph fidgeted, saying nothing.

  Trevor tried again. “Is the house on fire?”

  “No.”

  “Did you use my name or credit to purchase something of which, or hire someone of whom, I will not approve? And by this I mean did you purchase anything or hire anyone at all?”

  “No, Trev, it’s nothing like that.”

  “My God, Joseph.” He groaned as he descended the steps, but he motioned the boy into the alley. “You look like you’ve swallowed a goat. What is it?”

  “It’s Miss Grey.”

  Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “What about Miss Grey?”

  “She’s back.”

  “Back where?”

  “She . . . She came to the garden door,” he began.

  “Tell me that you did not admit her.”

  “She was so strong.”

  “She is a young woman, Joseph. A female. And you are nearly as large as I am.”

  “Not strong in body, strong in words,” insisted the boy.

  “Of course.” Trevor sighed deeply. “What did she do with her strong words? Talk you into doing this awful thing, whatever it may be?”

  “She had a girl with her.”

  “Her African maid,” Trevor guessed.

  “No, she had the woman from across the street. And another girl. Blonde-haired. Blue eyes. They had so many things to carry.”

  Trevor pivoted, took half a step, and spun back. “So, she waited until I left the house unprotected and then appealed to you?” It took effort to keep his voice low. “Armed with the neighbor’s nursemaid and an overburdened blonde girl?” He shook his head. “Oh, Joseph, you did not!”

  Out in the street, two passing gentlemen peered into the alley. Trevor grabbed the boy by the elbow and tugged him out of earshot.

  “She said she deserved to be let in,” Joseph explained. “She went on and on. She is like a lightning storm, my lord. Honest to God, I could not stop her.”

  “But of course you could stop her.” Trevor hissed out a long breath. “She is not a storm—although I appreciate your poetry—she’s a girl, as I’ve already said, and she barely weighs nine stone.” He released the boy and dropped his head back, speaking to the sky. “I cannot believe you admitted her, Joseph, I cannot.”

  “I knew you would be cross, but I came anyway.”

  “How brave you are. No fear of me but powerless in the face of Miss Piety Grey.” He hovered for a second, weighing his options. And then, without another word to the boy, he made for the horses.

  The ride home took ten minutes—ample time to determine what he would say. Get out, sprang repeatedly to mind, but no, that would never be sufficient.

  “She only wished to stay the afternoon,” Joseph said when they cleared Cavendish Square and cantered into Henrietta Place. “She said she would not make the slightest bother. She only wishes to be released in the evening, when the house is quiet.”

  “What the devil does that mean?” Trevor left his horse bridled in the mews and stormed inside.

  “When you’re away?” ventured Joseph.

  “Precisely. When I am away. I don’t care how quiet the house is when she comes and goes, Joseph; she’s asked you to deceive me!” He charged up the stairs.

  “I’m sorry, Trev.” The boy managed to choke the words out, ducking his head. He had the foresight to look completely defeated, and Trevor groaned. Of course it was not the boy’s fault. The woman was impossible. Aggressive. Unrelenting. And far too beautiful for her own good.

  When they reached the music room, the doorknob to the illustrious shared door was rattling.

  Trevor glowered at Joseph.

  They heard a shuffling. Footsteps. The feminine sound of someone clearing her throat.

  Then it came: three firm knocks.

  Trevor nodded, pointing at the boy. “Of course. I’ve come here to evict her, yet she demands an audience with me?”

  “Lord Falcondale?” Piety’s muffled voice came from beyond the door. “I can hear you shouting, so I know you are there. If you please, would you mind opening the door?”

  Trevor stared at the knob. “I want you out, Miss Grey!” He frowned at the door.

  “I cannot get out if you do not open the door.”

  “You would not be in if you had not bullied your way past my man the very moment I left the house unguarded.”

  “There was no bullying,” she corrected. “If you will only let me pass, I can explain.”

  Trevor swore under his breath and scowled at Joseph. He strode to the door.

  “Lord Falcondale?” she called, relentlessly cheerful.

  “A lightning storm, my lord,” whispered Joseph behind him.

  Trevor growled, whipping off his hat and coat and chucking them in his direction. “Get out, Joseph.”

  “Should I bring refreshment?” the boy offered.

  “Get out!” Trevor repeated the order, and then sighing heavily, he reached out and flipped the lock. The door swung.

  “Ah!” she said, popping through from the other side. “There we are. That’s better.”

  Her hair, Trevor was irritated to see, was down. No pins. No band. No hat. Silky light-brown waves framed her face. Some fell heavily forward over her neck and shoulders, more fell down her back. A particularly unruly lock dangled in her face. Her cheek was smeared with dirt, and she looked moist. With sweat.

  She was perspiring.

  She had rolled up the sleeves on her veil-weight blouse, and several buttons were loose, revealing damp, creamy skin from her chin to . . . to much lower.

  Dear God. She was not wearing shoes.

  Trevor narrowed his eyes, trying not to linger over any of it—the wild hair or bare feet or any of the sweaty bits in between. He failed miserably and looked again, endeavoring to be quick about it—sweeping his gaze up and down the length of her body. Only when he’d seen it all three times, did he manage the restraint to focus on her face.

  No surprise, she was smiling back at him sweetly. Smiling like an attendant at a wedding—a happy cousin, perhaps, enlisted to distribute refreshment. Smiling as if she’d just won top prize at the parish vegetable match.

  Not at all, he thought, as if she were defying all social convention, repeatedly breaking into his home, and driving him mad with lust.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear—”

  “What are you doing here?” His voice was flat.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, “but by here do you mean in the second floor of my house?” She gestured to the room. “Or here paying you a call?”

  “You are not paying me a call, Miss Grey. You are breaking into my home like a criminal. And I mean both.”

  “Hardly breaking in. I knocked, and you admitted me.”

  “I was referring to your breaking in while I was out.”

  “Because the reason I’ve knocked and have been admitted here,” she continued, ignoring him, “in your empty room, is to intervene. On behalf of Joseph. Please, my lord.” She looked at him sweetly. “This is not his fault.”

  “At least we agree on that.” His words were clipped. “Dare we risk some accord on whose fault, exactly, it might be?”

  “Of course we dare,” she said. “The fault lies with no one. Because no offense has been committed.”


  He pivoted away, shaking his head, and fell into an agitated line of pacing. Every moment or so, he stole a look at her. She smiled. It was then that it hit him—a moment of clarity—although he had no idea how he managed it. His current frame of mind was an agitated clash of anger and lust.

  Why not, he thought, simply concede? Remove himself from the whole bloody cock-up and allow her to do as she pleased? Would it really be so bad? Could it ever be as bad as this?

  He stopped pacing and spun, turning to face her. “Where are your shoes, Miss Grey?” he asked. He began a slow and steady march in her direction.

  “My shoes are not relevant,” she said, straightening her back. Her smile dissolved, just a touch. She appeared uncertain. “I . . . I paid to live in your house, my lord, but have—”

  “Stop talking,” he interrupted. “I have good news for you, Miss Grey, very good news indeed. You will absolutely want to hear it.” He continued to advance. She stumbled back.

  “You have convinced me,” he said. “The passage is yours. The stairs. The kitchen door. Please, summon Joseph whenever you require entrance or aid, just as you did today. I will instruct him to attend you.”

  He took another step. She was forced to back up or be bumped by his chest. She reached behind her, feeling for the wall.

  “Mine?” The word was followed by a raspy breath.

  It was the shortest sentence she’d ever uttered in his presence. In the absence of words, he advanced until he found himself looming over her. He was so close, he could see the individual strands of gold that made up the curl that hung in her face. So close, he could see that curl flutter, ever so slightly, each time she breathed in and out. His hands twitched to reach out, to tug gently, to see how long it would extend, and then watch it bounce back.

  He heard himself say, “It is not the lease arrangement you made with my uncle, but it is clearly something you are willing to lie, cheat, and steal to claim. I haven’t the time or energy to fight you on it, so I concede. Take it. Use it. Leave me alone. I think, perhaps, it’s the fastest way to allow both of us to get what we need.”