The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London

by Charis Michaels

  “Next, we require a more reliable way to take our meals,” she said, ticking off tasks on her fingers. “The kitchens are in no shape to yet bring in a cook, but that does not mean we cannot have fresh produce, cheese, and bread delivered each morning. Marissa, may I put you in charge of setting this up with runners from a market?” Marissa’s eyes grew large, but she stood tall and nodded, clearly encouraged by the new responsibility.

  “Finally,” Piety said, taking up a large map of London she’d located in her luggage, “I shall begin to call on furniture-makers and other craftsmen to outfit this house. First and foremost, we require proper beds, we won’t slee—”

  “Hallo?” A deep voice resonated through the house. Heavy footsteps followed, echoing through the first floor.

  Piety stilled. It was too soon for her mother to have located her, but the possibility was never far from her mind. She cocked her head to listen.

  The footsteps grew nearer, and the voice called again. A man’s voice, low and jolly.

  “The carpenters?” Piety allowed the map to fall to the floor. She scurried from the room, patting her hair and smoothing the dress she’d slept in all night.

  “You are expecting the carpenters today?” Jocelyn followed, with Marissa trailing behind.

  “If we’re lucky! The man I’ve hired to restore the house came very highly recommended, but, of course, I’ve never met him. I’ve sent word. He knows I wish to begin right away.”

  She cupped her hands around mouth and called, “Who’s there?” She winked at Jocelyn.

  “Spencer Burr!” came the booming reply. “Carpenter!”

  “But it is him!” Piety said happily, hurrying down the hall to the rotunda. Jocelyn and Marissa scrambled to keep up.

  “This way, Mr. Burr!” Piety called. She paused beside the derelict stairwell. “Do mind the rubble!”

  The sound of the footsteps grew closer, and they craned their heads, watching for the figure of a man to match the voice. They were not disappointed. His bald head came first, poking through the opposite doorway like a battering ram on a tree-trunk neck. “You’ve left the door unlocked, miss,” he said, grinning, “I hope you don’t mind.”

  They took a collective step back. The precariousness of their circumstance—three women alone, making camp in a barely secure house—felt truly risky for the first time.

  “Not at all,” Piety said, more carefully now. Behind her, Jocelyn made a strangled noise. “Please, do come in. I am here with my staff.”

  He shouldered in, broad shoulders and a barrel chest filling the rounded doorway. When he stood to full height, he dwarfed the arch.

  “Is this the home of Mistress Piety Grey, recently relocated from America?”

  “Yes, it is.” Piety laughed. “How glad I am to receive you, sir. I am Piety Grey.” She wound her way through the littered rotunda and extended her hand.

  “We meet at last!” the man said, “I am your carpenter, Miss Grey. Spencer Burr, at your service.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Burr,” she said, some of her confidence returning. “What luck to meet you on my third day in town. I have been so grateful to receive your letters.”

  “Likewise, miss. We have been waiting expectantly for your arrival these many weeks. We’d begun to think you’d never arrive. My, but aren’t you a young little thing.”

  “I am young, Mr. Burr, but I am rich.”

  “Are you now?” Spencer Burr chortled, punting a chicken pillow out of his way. “Well, we received the first bank notes, just as you promised, so I have no reason to doubt it.”

  “The job is substantial,” Piety replied, looking around, “of that you can be sure. The stairs, certainly, are a total loss. Far worse than I predicted in my letters. Indeed, all the damage I described is trifling compared to the reality we now face. We’ll have to prioritize and set down a schedule.”

  The large man nodded and began to walk a slow circle around the rotunda, studying the walls and ceiling. “Stairs lost, I should say.” He stopped in front of a gaping hole where the main stair once rose.

  Piety explained what she could remember of her conversation with the earl about the stairs, while Mr. Burr paced and nodded, extracting a piece of graphite from his pocket to scribble notes directly on the wall.

  “Who can say,” Piety went on, “perhaps the servants’ stair in the kitchen will be easier to restore first.”

  “Only one way to determine,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”

  They looked for more than two hours. Piety walked through every room with Mr. Burr: the rustic kitchens; the damp, moldy cellar; and her favorite space, a jewel-shaped solarium with foggy glass on the edge of the garden. They discussed her expectations and his predictions for budget and schedule and feasibility for each. The stairs, he conceded, would, in fact, not be replaced in a week. On this, the earl had been correct. A trained architect would be required, he said, in order to direct their proper restoration.

  There were other concerns: damage or decay that had not been accurately described, improper ventilation, and mice. So many mice.

  Mr. Burr was thorough—in some instances, painfully so—but he was also resourceful. He provided Piety with the direction of possible architects she might hire for this or that reconstruction, including the oppressive stairs. He knew artisans who could rework the mosaic tiles in the solarium, and a man with little trained dogs who could come and help ferret out all the mice. When he had a working list of supplies and craftsmen needed, Mr. Burr, himself, took his leave, although a small crew remained to begin demolition.

  Piety was grateful for the immediate progress—any progress—but the noise of construction grated more than she expected, and she found herself drifting. The house had a lovely garden terrace, and she wandered outside, squinting into the spring sunshine.

  Oh, gracious, the growing list of needs, she thought, embarking on an overgrown garden path. The expense would be considerable. The repairs would take months, if not a full year.

  Before she could stop herself, she glanced at Falcondale’s house over her garden wall. She wondered if he would agree with Mr. Burr’s assessments.

  She came upon a stone bench and stared at it, too preoccupied to sit. She glanced again at his house.

  He wouldn’t care enough to agree, she thought. This work did not affect him beyond the imposition of the passage. And anyway, she dare not ask him. He was a distraction, and she could not afford to lose focus. She’s wasted enough time thinking of their kiss. She’d lost sleep, wedged against the lumpy back of the velvet couch, reliving it. Even during her critical tour with Mr. Burr, her mind had drifted to it.

  If she must obsess over it, perhaps she could force herself to feel badly about it. Penance, et cetera. In honor of Jocelyn, she tried to conjure up piteous feelings of guilt. Her chaperone had been entirely correct to remind her of the risks of such behavior. Piety knew all of the things that decent young ladies were meant to do and not to do, and kissing bachelor neighbors in deserted music rooms was not among them. If Jocelyn, or Tiny or, God forbid, the marchioness knew, her legitimacy as a well-meaning resident of this street in particular—and upstanding young lady in general—would be shot. She was independent, but she was not reckless, usually.

  Piety’s only excuse was how very necessary the entire interlude had seemed at the time. It had been as essential, somehow, as restoring the house or staying ahead of her mother. If she had anything to feel guilty about, it was that her priorities had become scrambled.

  At the very least, the earl’s kiss had been a singular, once-and-only kind of thing. She was intrigued by him and drawn to him, and kissing him had been one of the most thrilling experiences of her . . . well, in a very long time. But she was no fool. And Falcondale could not have been more clear. He disliked her. He would avoid her. He did not care about her house or her arrival to his street. Likely, they would never cross paths again. He intended to leave England forever, and any day. The thought of this, which drifte
d in and out of her mind with far too great a regularity, left her with an unexplained stew of indignation and frustration somewhere in her chest. It felt like being slowly submerged in water again and again. And that was the very last thing she needed. She had enough emotional flotsam and jetsam in her life to slowly drown. She needn’t add more.

  No, she thought, forcing herself back to the house, she would not kiss him again. If possible, she would not think of him again. Eventually she would have the time and energy to meet a man and perhaps even fall in love. And when that happened, it would not be with someone who would surely break her heart. The one thing her mother had taught her: How miserable it felt to love someone who could not love her in return.

  CHAPTER TEN

  24 May 1809

  Dear Lord Falcondale,

  I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion of this written request, but circumstances have forced my hand. I had to, at the very least, try.

  I am, as you predicted, in sore need of a trained architect. I have endeavored to hire the work from a firm in Eastcastle Street, but the recommended experts seem disinclined to take me on. Something about the lack of a proper “referral,” although my suspicion is, they are opposed to working for a woman. So be it.

  Our main problem is the stairs, another of your predictions. The carpenters were able to quickly erect rudimentary stairs in the servants’ stairwell, and lucky for us. We have been able to come and go without intruding upon you.

  Despite the progress, the main staircase is somewhat of a conundrum to my carpenters. Naturally, this as-yet-untouched heap is the only route wide enough to convey large furnishings up and down.

  You spoke so knowledgably about the construction when we were last together, I wonder if you’d be willing to have a look? First and foremost, I want the workers making every concession toward safety and strength, but also I’d like the finished stairs to be a showpiece installment in my home. I have taken the liberty of attaching a handful of crude sketches made by my chief carpenter, Mr. S. Burr, and I have made notes about our questions (as he explained them to me).

  Certainly if you are disinclined to help, then you may discard them without another thought. But, I approach you humbly, hat in hand. Your desire that we have no further contact could not have been made more clear last week, and how prudent you are. It is only in my hour of great need that I reach out. I am aware of your busy schedule and desire to be left alone, though I fully intend to compensate you for your time and effort spent.

  If you are able to assist, I can be available to receive you anytime. Use the passage or my front door—however you feel most inclined.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Piety Grey

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lady Frinfrock, flanked by Tiny and two footmen, rapped on Piety’s front door immediately after luncheon on the first day of the second week of reconstruction. By this time, the ground floor, formerly dusty and cavernous, now appeared ransacked and torn to bits.

  At least it looks like progress, Piety hoped as she ushered the marchioness inside. “I cannot guarantee your safety, my lady,” she said. “You can barely turn round without encountering workmen or debris.”

  She had to shout to be heard over the deafening noise of construction. The high dome of the rotunda ceiling multiplied the cacophonous din of hammers and saws, tripling their original sound.

  “I am not startled by the sights and sounds of honest work, Miss Grey,” the marchioness said over her shoulder. She plodded down the hall with her cane. “Bernard and Julius are here to assist me should something unwieldy lay in my path. Oh, Miss Baker! Do mind the scaffolding!” She cautioned Tiny behind her.

  Piety bit her lip and looked at Jocelyn. “You were right to cease our sleeping in the parlor and to arrange a real bedroom in the library,” she whispered. “This will please Tiny.”

  “It’s the very first thing her ladyship will ask,” Jocelyn whispered back. She stared down the hall after her. “I cannot believe she’s come. She rarely leaves the house, except for church.”

  “This house is an abomination.” Lady Frinfrock’s voice came from the rotunda. “Wherever do you sleep amid all the ruinous pit?”

  Piety and Jocelyn hurried down the hall after her, spouting assurances, pointing out the still-standing features of the house, and giving her a tour of the library-turned-sleeping quarters. For whatever reason, the carpenters regarded the marchioness with an effusive deference, nearly genuflecting when she entered the room. It didn’t hurt. Throughout it all, Tiny walked silently beside Lady Frinfrock, her arms tightly folded across her chest, shaking her head.

  Jocelyn, bless her, discerned Piety’s need to speak privately with Tiny, and she offered to give the marchioness a tour of the house’s long-ignored solarium. Lady Frinfrock lit up like the sun at the mention of horticulture, and she scuttled to the hexagon-shaped glass room at the rear of the house.

  “Do you think she will shut me down?” Piety asked Tiny as they watched the marchioness and Jocelyn go.

  “The one who’s shutting you down,” said Tiny, drifting toward the kitchens, “is me. Missy Pie, this place is in worse shape than it was when we pried open the door that very first time. You can’t think of living here in all of this filth. Bugs and rot and moldy curtains. I just saw a rat.”

  Piety took a deep breath. “It must get worse before it gets better.”

  “And it’s crawling with men! You and Miss Breedlowe are over here by yourselves!” She ducked through the arched doorway to the kitchens and looked around.

  “The men are merely workers,” Piety said. “They are here to make repairs for us, not dance with us. By December, you and I will fill this room with all the smells and flavors of Christmas. Until then, well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, was it? And, in the meantime, you have . . . Well, how is it, exactly? With the marchioness?”

  The small woman shrugged and made her way to the window seat. “She is mighty nice. Very respectful. I’m not used to having so many people wait on me. Or such a big bed.”

  “Are you with her all day?”

  “Only when it suits me. She wants to talk about a whole mess of things that I haven’t talked about since God knows when. When I was a girl. My parents. My brothers. It isn’t all bad.”

  “But it’s not too much, Tiny?” Piety whispered, looking closely at her face. “Too personal or intrusive to discuss such things? You know we needn’t do it simply because she bade us. I want you to be comfortable during the renovation, but I do not want your privacy to suffer. I do not want you to suffer at all.”

  Tiny rubbed her eyes. “No. I—I don’t mind. It feels good to talk about it. Especially with someone I don’t even know. To remember. The marchioness hangs on every word I say.” She dropped her hands from her face and raised her chin.

  Piety grinned. “Well, I suspect you are the first person ever to have that effect on her. And good for you both.”

  They laughed, and Piety swooped her up into a big hug, bending down to press her cheek against Tiny’s. She closed her eyes and sighed. “It’s going to be all right, Tiny. Everything is going to be all right. You’ll see.”

  They embraced a moment more, and then, from the rotunda, they heard Jocelyn call. “Miss Grey?”

  “We’re here!” answered Piety, giving Tiny a peck on the cheek. “Would her ladyship like to see—”

  Before she could finish, Lady Frinfrock pushed her way into the kitchen with Jocelyn scrambling to keep up. The marchioness’s footman stumbled behind them, their arms full of dirty clay pots.

  “Her ladyship would like to advise you on the revival of your solarium,” Jocelyn said.

  “I have no doubt that the solarium will be the very last room you look after,” began the marchioness, “and what a shame. That solarium is the only redeeming quality of this house.”

  Piety smiled. “It was the glass solarium that convinced me to buy the house, my lady. From the moment the estate agent described it, I was enchanted. I hope to
restore it as soon as the essential areas are underway.”

  “Yes, well, whether you will regard it as a novelty or truly nurture it remains to be seen.” She waved her cane in Piety’s direction. “In meantime, I am taking these pots in order that seedlings and bedding plants can take root in my own greenhouse while we are still under threat of a morning frost.”

  She bustled toward the door, without waiting for Piety’s consent. “You will see these again, restored and full of life, when I have witnessed the careful restoration of the solarium and evidence of your proficiency with—and dedication to—delicate plant life.”

  You’re taking my pots? Piety wanted to ask, but she said, “However can I thank you, my lady? How generous you are.”

  “You can thank me by staying inside this house and not admitting another soul from the street until it’s been remade into a decent dwelling, fit for decent people.” She scowled up and down the hallway as if it were the chief offender and then settled her gaze on Jocelyn. “Miss Breedlowe, as much as you annoy me, I cannot ask a fellow Englishwoman to endure this appalling level of decrepitude.”

  Piety gasped, but the marchioness ignored her, plodding back to the rotunda and motioning for the burdened footmen to follow. “I will hire some other unlucky soul to chaperone Miss Grey—a stalwart Bavarian, perhaps—and you may come home with Tiny and myself.”

  Jocelyn took a step after her. “If it pleases you, my lady,” she said, raising her voice over the sound of the marchioness’s cane, “I am not at all inconvenienced by the conditions here with Miss Grey. If you do not mind, I should like to stay.”

  The marchioness’s steady plod ceased. She pivoted slowly.

  Jocelyn continued undaunted. “I . . . I think I can do Miss Grey some good. For the benefit of the street. That is unless you require my attention and care.”

  The marchioness squinted at her. “I believe I have made it perfectly clear that your care is the very last thing I need.” She studied the younger woman, leaning on her cane. “Very well,” she finally said. “You may stay if you think you can bear it. But Tiny and I shall return every day or so. I wish to see real progress amid the chaos and the highest possible regard for propriety. This is not the American frontier, Miss Grey. England has long been the most civilized power in the modern world. If you intend to live among us, you must learn to behave as if a roof above your head and four standing walls are not merely a preference.” Shaking her head, she resumed her progress toward the front door.