The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London

by Charis Michaels

  When he finished, Joseph asked, “Be hard to blackmail him if he’s not even in town.”

  “That’s the God’s-honest truth. But, you know, Joseph, I’m racking my brain for a way not to blackmail the bloody man. I can’t commit a crime on Straka’s behalf. Not here in England. Not against a viscount who’s known as ‘Lord Immaculate.’ It was one thing to run schemes in Greece, where corruption is a way of life, but in England? There has to be some other way.”

  Joseph grinned. “I’m glad you won’t do it.”

  “Well, I’ve said I will try not to do it. If the man is in London, I hope to set up a meeting under the auspices of investing in his ships. By the time he figures out I have no money and no interest in shipping, hopefully I will have learned something useful.”

  “Learned something useful about what?” said a sleep-rasped voice from the doorway.

  Trevor craned around.

  His wife stood at the base of the servants’ stairs clad only in a thin night rail. Her hair was wild and loose. Her feet, bare. She squinted, sleep still in her eyes.

  Trevor glanced at Joseph, dismissing him, and went to her, whipping off his coat to cover her shoulders.

  “What are you doing awake at this hour?” he asked softly.

  “Couldn’t sleep.” She snuggled into the coat. “Why are you here? Is anything the matter?”

  “No, no, I am merely checking on Joseph.”

  They looked up, and the boy was gone.

  “Do you want something from the kitchen?” he asked her. “Joseph had the kettle on.”

  She shook her head and turned to go.

  “Piety, wait.”

  She paused on the stair.

  “Let me walk you up. There are strewn nails and tools and loose timber. You mustn’t walk around without shoes in the dark.”

  He clipped up the stairs beside her, and as they wound up the small staircase, his hand hovered at the small of her back. He intended to leave her in the hallway outside her chamber, but she fumbled with the knob. Her hand was lost in the sleeve of his jacket.

  He toed the door with his boot, and she padded past him. Her loose hair grazed his face. The sweet scent of her—floral soap and clean cotton—wafted over him. He followed.

  “In the bed you go,” he heard himself say, taking his coat. He would merely see her safely beneath the covers.

  She said nothing, crawling sleepily into the bed. Her gown was voluminous, and her feet were tangled, briefly, in the hem. He reached out to pull it free, and his thumb grazed her ankle.

  She extended her leg.

  He caught her foot in his hand.

  She looked up. Of its own volition, his hand slid upward. With half-lidded eyes, he watched his fingers trace her trim ankle, bare leg, knee.

  He stopped. He looked at her. She was propped back on her elbows, staring back. She blinked.

  “Under the covers now,” he whispered. His voice was a useless crackle of reverence and desire.

  She went opposite the covers, sliding her other leg beside the first. She pointed her toes.

  He stared at her feet. Small. Arched. Five tiny toes on each dainty foot.

  He had never felt so stricken with the need to touch, to skate his hand down and outline one perfect arch with his finger and glide it back up again.

  He forced himself to whisper. “I said beneath the covers, Piety.”

  The sheet was beneath her, and he used one hand to slide it free. With the other hand, he held her ankle.

  Holding the sheet out, he stared at his fingers surrounding her foot.

  She wiggled the toes of the other.

  He dropped the sheet and seized that foot as well.

  Piety let out a whimper, rubbing her feet together and dropping back against the pillow on a sigh.

  Trevor increased the pressure, massaging the smooth, firm skin of her feet—then her ankles. His hands went higher with each pass. Up her legs and down. Now to her knees, and down. Now higher, above her knees. Her night rail was a twist across her thighs.

  His breathing grew ragged. He felt the rapid thud of his own accelerated heartbeat. She arched back, pointing her toes in delight.

  On the final pass, he slid his hands up the sides of her legs, over her hips and waist, up to her breasts and then, gathering the fabric of her night rail, he fleeced the thin garment over her head, leaving her naked before him.

  He swallowed and stared down.

  “One small, goodnight kiss?” she asked.

  On a growl, Trevor flung the night rail away and fell into bed.

  “I’m sorry, Piety,” he said. “This is unfair, and wrong.”

  “If you say that again,” she said, “I will bite you.”

  And then she bit him anyway, but ever so softly, just behind his ear. He moaned, and they worked very diligently to kiss goodnight, until the sun awakened the sky.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Piety was anxious to get a real look at the progress of her house in the clear light of day. Falcondale did not awaken when she left the bed, but when she returned from breakfast, he was gone.

  It was a waste of time to be surprised. She would have been shocked to find him in her chamber or anywhere in the house. Their separate lives had begun.

  Ha. Our separate lives have resumed.

  Her only solace was that he had wanted her. Desperately. As desperately as she wanted him. If she thought he had not, if she thought he had been indulging her or simply going through the motions, she would not have consented. But the desire, so plain on his face, so tense through his body, had ignited her own need. And what was one more night? Soon he would be gone, and she’d have only the memories to keep her warm. Why not make as many as possible?

  Now it was almost luncheon, and she had nearly unpacked. Only one trunk remained from her time in Berkshire. She bent over it, pulling out reticules and shoes, reminding herself to stay busy, to concentrate on the exciting work of her house rather than her husband’s heart-wrenching stubbornness.

  She picked her way down the landing, armed with the reticules, and nearly collided with Spencer Burr.

  “Oh, Mr. Burr,” she said, craning to see him over the bundle, “the molding in my bedroom is positively sculptural. I love it!”

  “It was the earl’s design, my lady. He constructed it from the st—”

  Crack!

  In the middle of his sentence, the wood of the landing on which they stood gave a jolt beneath their feet.

  Piety staggered, and Mr. Burr let out a yelp. He lunged to the bannister and looked over the edge.

  Piety opened her mouth to ask him what was amiss, but before she could speak, the wood jolted again. There was another crack. A groan.

  She reached for the banister, dropping the bags without a thought. Mr. Burr reached out to steady her.

  A new sound filled the rotunda. A splintering. Piety gripped the railing, looking wildly in the direction of the noise. An expanse of fresh plaster had buckled on the side of the stairwell below.

  Mr. Burr shouted for her to get back, but there was no time. The floor trembled again. The plaster tore in two directions, now three. After a deafening pop, it began to drop off in chunks.

  Piety screamed, and Mr. Burr reached for her.

  It was the last thing she remembered before the stairwell crumbled, pulling the landing down with it, and they fell, fell, fell.

  Jocelyn knew from the sound of the crash that something terrible had happened. The noise itself was alarming, but with it came a jolt that shook the house and a gush of stale air that blew the fine hair away from her face.

  Jocelyn rose up and then froze, listening to the ringing silence. Marissa dropped the tablecloth she had been folding and bolted toward the door.

  “Marissa, wait!” Jocelyn called, unsure of what awaited them in the next room. “Not that way,” she said. “Go through the kitchens to the stables and fetch the new grooms—all of them. Then go to the marchioness’s house and tell Bernard to send for th
e doctor.”

  The girl looked skeptical, more intent on saving her own skin, but Jocelyn refused to be ignored. “Marissa, go! Something awful has happened! Run as fast as you can!”

  The girl nodded and fled.

  Jocelyn ran toward the sound.

  “Oh, God, no,” she whispered, when she rounded the arched doorway and took in the disaster.

  Lumber, beams, and plaster poked every-which-way in an angry, tangled heap, like a giant’s overturned rubbish bin. Above, the balcony looked as if the same giant had taken a huge bite from the landing. Where walkway and balustrade once ran, now there was nothing—an expanse of raw, jagged boards and drooping rug. Dust and grit swirled in the air between the break and the pile.

  Tentatively, Jocelyn took a step closer, eyeing the heap and the second floor, distrustful of more falling debris. Then she saw Piety. The bright fabric of her favorite yellow day dress was impossible to miss, even half-buried. Without thinking, Jocelyn waded into the rubble and began to pick her way to Piety, calling her name.

  Are there others? she wondered frantically, ducking chunks of lumber that continued to drop from above. “Piety! I am coming!” Her voice was high and weak with fear.

  She discovered Mr. Burr by nearly stepping on him. He was half-buried under wood and plaster, his body camouflaged by slate-colored dust.

  “Mr. Burr!” she exclaimed, scrambling to make room. “Mr. Burr?” He made no response. She screamed into the silence of the house. “Help! Please, someone help!”

  She heard no answer. Please, Marissa, bring help.

  She looked back to the deathly stillness of Piety and Mr. Burr, trying to decide whom to go to first. Mr. Burr was closer—just a step way—so she stooped and began to dig, pulling first one board, then another. Her hands shook, and she coughed on the grit rising from the rubble. Tentative picking did nothing; either the wood would not budge or it disintegrated in her hand. She cried out in frustration. Now she dropped to her knees and put her back into it, choking back tears. This was more effective. A big heap toppled with her first significant pull. Just like that, Mr. Burr’s legs were relieved of the larger of two boards.

  She scrambled to his chest and listened. A heartbeat.

  Thank you, God!

  And a breath! He was alive and breathing. Another prayer of thanks.

  Feeling more confident, she began to pick her way to Piety. Tears filled her eyes when she discovered that Piety, too, was breathing. But the yellow fabric on the sleeve of her gown was entirely soaked with blood. Again, Jocelyn dug, picking away at the plaster that had settled around her, careful not to upset her position.

  When the debris was gone, she could see the source of the blood: a nail, bent and rusty, had rammed through Piety’s arm. The pocked, gnarled point of it jutted out of her sleeve, aiming grimly toward the ceiling.

  Jocelyn clapped her hand over her mouth and willed herself to think. The bleeding had to be stopped, but how? She looked around, trying to be resourceful and calm. Solve it, solve it, solve it.

  She had just lifted her hem to rip a strip from her petticoats, when she heard footsteps. She cried out, staggering to stand.

  It was Falcondale. He sprinted into the room with Joseph behind him, the look on his face one of sheer terror. “My God, what’s happened?”

  And then he saw Piety.

  “No!” He darted toward the unsteady pile.

  “Please, my lord!” called Jocelyn, holding out a hand. “She is alive, but we must have more help and perhaps even a doctor before we unsettle her. I have sent Marissa for the doctor, but until he arrives, I believe it is important to take the utmost care not to cause more damage.”

  “Who else is hurt?”

  “Mr. Burr is there.” She indicated his position with a tilt of her head. “There may be others. Careful, Falcondale; the debris is very unstable!”

  For a moment, she thought he would ignore her. He looked as if he hadn’t heard; his face was wild with worry. Joseph grabbed his arm from behind.

  “Let me loose!” He growled, shrugging away, but he stopped at the base of the pile and looked up. “What in God’s name happened?”

  “Lady Piety was unpacking trunks on the second floor,” Jocelyn said. “I do not know about Mr. Burr. I assume they were going about their business when the rotten section of the landing gave way.”

  Falcondale swore. “I told the architect that all of the old wood had to go. I should have seen to it myself! Will this heap hold my weight?”

  “I cannot say. You must proceed carefully. One step at a time. Do not charge up.”

  With as much speed as careful steps would allow, Falcondale and Joseph waded into the rubble toward Piety. The earl redirected the boy to Mr. Burr.

  When Falcondale saw Piety’s trapped, bloody body, he dropped to his knees with a noise of pure agony.

  “We must stop the bleeding,” he said.

  “Yes,” agreed Jocelyn, “but the nail.”

  “I see it. Please, can you find something clean to stop the flow of blood?”

  She nodded and tried to step backward, teetering. They heard voices.

  It was the grooms. “Miss! Miss!” came men’s cries from the main hall. They rounded the corner, continuing, “Oy! What’s happened?”

  Jocelyn waved them in, and Falcondale shot to his feet, informing them of the obvious. He dispatched one for more medical help and another to locate the remainder of Mr. Burr’s crew. The other four were ordered to work in pairs to remove the pieces of wood and rubble from around Mr. Burr and the countess. Jocelyn hurried off for make-shift bandages, returning quickly with linen napkins that she and Marissa had just unpacked from a trunk.

  Falcondale presided over the rescue efforts until the doctors came, working alongside the grooms, with a calm, clear authority, giving equal attention to Mr. Burr and his wife. Jocelyn was glad to defer to him. Her hands shook, and her nerves were shot. She helped where she could.

  They pried Mr. Burr free and rolled him onto a wide board so that he was flat and stable.

  Refusing help, Falcondale gently laid Piety on a second board and hovered over her, arranging her torn dress and smoothing the hair away from her face. When she was settled, he carefully examined her arm. “It’s run clean through the flesh,” he told Jocelyn, taking a moment to breathe deeply and wipe his eyes. “But it’s somehow missed the bone.”

  Jocelyn nodded. Of all the ways to suffer a nail through the arm, this had to be the most preferable.

  “We cannot properly stave off the bleeding with the nail in her arm. It must come out.”

  “Are you certain, my lord?”

  Falcondale nodded grimly. “I saw every manner of injury during my time in Greece. The man for whom I worked retained a private surgeon, but he was not always around. You learn things. Common sense. This nail is filthy and precludes any pressure to the wound. It cannot stay in her arm.”

  Before she could ask him how she might help, he braced one hand on the board and quickly but steadily slid the nail from Piety’s arm in one fluid motion. Jocelyn gasped. Piety cried out, although she was still unconscious and did not awaken. Tears, Jocelyn saw, streamed down the earl’s cheeks as he bent near her ear and whispered as he stroked her face. Then he returned to her arm, examining the wound. He motioned to Jocelyn, and she moved in quickly with the linen, working beside him to stop the flow of blood that now coursed from the puncture.

  Sometime after that—minutes? An hour?—the doctors arrived, rushing inside with Marissa and members of Lady Frinfrock’s staff. On the earl’s command, the two physicians split, each giving their full attention to one patient. One doctor was accompanied by an assistant, and Jocelyn insisted that the two men work together on Piety, while she offered to aid the doctor with Mr. Burr. His leg, the doctor determined, was badly broken, but he would survive. Holding him down while the doctor set the large man’s leg took all her strength, plus the strength of three grooms. He came to with a loud, forceful string of profani
ty.

  When he was stable and out of danger, she hurried back to Piety and the earl.

  “The doctor,” Falcondale told her, “believes the puncture wound may be the worst of what he can tell so far.” He sat on the floor with Piety slumped half in his lap. “Of course any internal damage to the head and neck can only be assessed when she awakens.”

  “Of course,” whispered Jocelyn, taking up one of Piety’s limp hands. “She is cold. I will get blankets.”

  “Thank you, Miss Breedlowe. How is Mr. Burr?”

  “He has broken his right leg, but he will survive. He has regained consciousness.”

  “I would speak to him,” began the earl, “but I cannot leave her.”

  “Do not worry yourself. He is taking full responsibility and agonizing about the countess, but I will assure him.”

  “Thank you. I will speak to him presently.” He looked down at his wife’s peaceful face. “Piety’s bed chamber is out of the question. In fact, no one should go upstairs until I have looked over the damage myself. When she is stable, I will move Piety to the master suite of my house.”

  Jocelyn nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

  “We must send a messenger to fetch Miss Baker from Berkshire. Piety will want to see her when she . . . ” He trailed off.

  “She will awaken when the shock to her body has passed, my lord. Please do not lose heart.”

  He looked up, squeezing his eyes shut, and Jocelyn saw tears leak from their corners.

  She looked discreetly away and added, “She is a fighter—Piety Rheese.”

  “That she is,” the earl agreed gruffly. “And thank God for that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Piety regained consciousness in fits and starts. Whenever awake, Tiny and Jocelyn plied her with nourishment—broth, bread, sweets, water, wine, anything they could ladle down her throat—though she had no appetite. The last thing she wanted to do in her few, precious moments of lucidity was eat. Or speak, for that matter. Yet, just when her mouth was full, they invariably demanded she tell them how she felt.

  She felt vague. Fuzzy. Hurt. Everything hurt, especially her arm.