The Earl Next Door: The Bachelor Lords of London

by Charis Michaels

  When she slept, she dreamed. She dreamed of her father urging her to read to him, riding with her through the summer marshland surrounding their home in Rhode Island. And she dreamed of Falcondale. Laughing, kissing her, carrying her up the stairs after their wedding. In bed. Walking beside the wall on a hillside. Throwing pebbles in a pond. Other dreams were dark: Eli upon her, restraining her, slapping her; her mother laughing at her while she tried to run away.

  Throughout it all, she was cold. Shivering, from icy toes to shuddering shoulders. In the moments before they shoved spoonfuls of food in her mouth, she begged for more blankets and a hotter fire.

  After days, she woke up for all of thirty minutes—long enough to actually speak between bites of her force-fed meal.

  “Where are we?” The frail hoarseness in her voice sounded strange to her own ears. She looked blinkingly around a sparse, dark room.

  “ ’Tis the master chamber in Falcondale’s home, my lady,” Jocelyn said. “Will you take more bread?”

  “No, please. Has he . . . Has the earl gone?”

  “Gone?” asked Jocelyn.

  “On his journey. To Syria?”

  Her friend chuckled. “He’s scarcely left your side since the accident. He will be disappointed that you’ve awakened when he had an errand in St. James. He’s been a constant fixture here, I would say.”

  “Oh, God.” Piety moaned. She tried to touch her hand to her forehead but recoiled at the pain in her arm.

  “I would not worry so, my lady. I think your near-death experience may have caused him to see his own heart in a new light. He’s been given quite a scare.”

  “All this from a nail? Why can’t I get up?”

  “Your bruising is substantial, but the doctors believe that your bones and muscles are intact. The trouble is with the puncture. An infection set in, and you are suffering from fever. Your body is fighting the infection.”

  “I feel a little better. Am I improving?”

  “In time, my lady,” said Jocelyn, but Piety saw her look away.

  “So I am very sick, indeed.”

  “You are alive, Piety, and that is what matters now. You have regained consciousness with clear eyes and speech. You know us. This is progress, indeed. The infection in your arm is our next concern. One thing at a time.”

  Tiny leaned in next, plying her with water. “The doctor is coming again this afternoon. There is no use guessing how sick you are until he has his say. All you need to worry about is eating and sleeping.”

  “Why am I so cold?”

  “ ’Tis the fever, my lady,” said Jocelyn. “I will get a hot cloth for your face.”

  “How is Mr. Burr?” she asked, feeling her eyelids grow heavy.

  “A broken leg. He will recover fully.”

  Piety wanted to ask more, but she could feel herself drifting back into oblivion.

  Before she fell unconscious again, there was something of dire importance she wished to say. “Jocelyn?”

  “I am here.”

  “I . . . I need to ask a colossal favor. It is difficult, and you will not like it, but it is essential to me.”

  “How serious this sounds,” said Jocelyn, smiling.

  Piety looked at the blankets covering her body. “I cannot stay here,” she said resolutely. “In the earl’s house. You’ve . . . You must help me to move.”

  “Move?” Tiny’s expression was mutinous.

  In the same moment, Jocelyn said, “Help you what?”

  “To a rented hotel suite. To hired apartments. Perhaps to Lady Frinfrock’s, if she will help me once more. I hate to impose, really I do, but I see no choice.”

  “But, Piety, why? You are staying awake long enough to make conversation, but this business with the puncture wound is very serious. I did not want to alarm you, but the doctor has suggested that the infection could cause you to lose your arm. We dare not unsettle you and set back your recovery. You have every comfort here with the earl. And it is your place to be with your husband. Please make no mistake, your condition is very fragile.”

  “Lose my arm?” she repeated. Her breathing was shallow and raspy. “If that is the case, then I am even more determined. I cannot bear to be a burden. Not to him, of all people.”

  “Burden? What burden? You have not heard or seen his devotion. You misjudge his attitude since the fall. He does not at all seem put out or burdened in the least. Indeed, attending to you seems to be his very life’s work.”

  “Oh, God. What a nightmare. Do you not see? This is exactly the situation he endured with his mother! She was a convalescent, and he was forced, duty-bound, to care for her. I will not impose the same.”

  “Forgive me if I sound unsupportive or unhelpful, my lady, but I would go so far as to say that his lordship would be angry if you relocated—especially without his knowledge. He is very intent about your care. He has hired a staff: maids, footmen, a cook, and a kitchen girl. They make sure we have everything we need. But most of all, the earl himself has been so very vigilant. Hardly a moment has passed when he is not here with you—and of his own accord. We have said nothing. In fact, we have urged him to leave you to take his own rest. This brief departure today is rare. He has been very steadfast. Very steadfast, indeed.”

  Piety moaned again. “Worse, still.” She rolled painfully to her side. “All he wanted was an uncomplicated life, with no one to look after but himself. And now I’m an invalid who may lose her arm. I will not be a burden to him. Will not—”

  “You stop right there, Missy Pie,” Tiny interrupted. “How can you be a burden when all you do is lay in the bed?”

  Piety shook her head. “Everything you say only convinces me more. Who wishes for a wife confined to her bed? It was one thing for me to insist that we could make a go of this marriage when I was capable and energetic and able to solve problems and make our lives easier. But now? When I can scarcely stay awake from moment to the next? When I may lose my arm!”

  “Come now.” Jocelyn tried to sooth her. “The doctor has not—”

  “We know enough to know that the danger is real. What in God’s name would Falcondale do with a one-armed wife? Assuming I live long enough to have it taken from me. Jocelyn! Tiny! Please, you must relocate me.”

  “And say what to your husband?” asked Tiny. “What are we supposed to say after we steal you away from his own house? The man will be furious and come after us! When he does, for once, he’ll be right.”

  “Miss Baker is correct, Piety. The earl could charge us with . . . with abduction.”

  “Please. The earl will recover, I assure you. As for me? There’s no guarantee, is there? Knowing this, and knowing his history, I cannot stay.”

  They stared blankly at her, committing to nothing, and Piety tried to sit up in the bed. “Tell me I’m fabricating this worry,” she said. “Convince me that I do not embody the precise, helpless condition that he has worked meticulously to avoid.” She fell back on the pillows, drawing shallow, ragged breaths. “I am correct in this. You know I’m correct. I cannot stay.”

  Piety turned her head to the side, tears streaming down her cheeks. She would not be deterred. She would die before he saw her helpless and needy.

  “The marchioness will understand,” Piety said softly to the wall. “And she will help you move me. There is money enough for whatever you need. Please, Jocelyn, Tiny. If ever you cared for me, help me in this.”

  Jocelyn sounded miserable when she said, “I will try, my lady. I will try.”

  “I don’t suppose this is any worse of an idea than your other wild schemes.” Tiny grumbled and fussed with the bedclothes. “Still, I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit, and I’ll march you back up to this room myself if I see your fever rise one mark.”

  “Thank you,” Piety whispered, and then she drifted into a dark and dreamless sleep.

  Trevor walked into Piety’s sick room four days later to the devastating discovery that his wife was gone.

  The bedchamb
er was empty.

  His bed—the bed which just hours before had contained his frail wife—was vacant. Not just empty, but made up with brisk precision. Piety’s possessions were gone. Her trunk of clothes, the stack of blankets, her medicines and bandages, the vases and vases of fresh flowers were all gone. The room stood cold and empty, even the fire had been extinguished and the ash carried away. It looked just as it had before the accident.

  His first thought, God help him, his first thought was that she was . . . that she had . . .

  He stopped breathing. His heart ceased beating. He nearly lost his footing and dropped to one knee. Fear closed his throat.

  It was inconceivable, what he thought, and thank God he was able to reason his way out of the ensuing panic. Someone would have alerted him if she had made a turn for the worse.

  No, he thought. Not that.

  “Joseph! Joseph!” He heaved up and staggered mindlessly around the room, stripping back bed linens and upsetting empty drawers, looking for any clue. He threw open the window and shouted her name into the quiet street. He lunged from closet to closet, yanking open doors. He was just about to race down the hall, to attack the rooms in which Miss Breedlowe and Miss Baker had been staying, when Joseph skidded up to him.

  “I’ve seen, my lord,” the boy said, waving his arms to make sure Trevor didn’t step on him. “The house was too quiet when I returned from the market, and I raced up. The entire house is empty! There’s nothing. I was about to come for you!”

  “The market?” Trevor roared. “I would not have gone if I could not trust you to remain here to stand guard. How could you leave her?”

  “They tricked me, Trevor! Miss Breedlowe asked me to run to the market to fetch an herb for Lady Piety’s salve. It seemed urgent, and Iros was no longer watching the house because he left when you did, trailing you. I was only gone long enough to sprint to the market and back, but when I returned, she was gone. Everyone was gone.”

  Trevor shook his head, unable to hear excuses. He continued down the stairs at a fast clip. “Muster the staff. All the new maids. The grooms from the countess’s stable. We’ll hear a report from everyone.”

  “But what staff? What maids? Did you hear me, Trevor? They’re all gone! Only Marissa remains, and she has returned to the employ of Lady Frinfrock. The house is vacant.”

  Trevor paused and looked at Joseph, confused. “Gone where? A house full of people and a woman clinging to life do not just disappear, Joseph. My God, I was only gone for an hour!” He’d only left because his meeting with the viscount had been today. If anything had happened to Piety while he was away on Straka’s goddamned errand, he would kill the old man with his own two hands.

  The thought of Straka struck Trevor with a new, more chilling layer of fear. “Straka would not abduct her.” He said the thought out loud, trying to stave off his own panic. “The hassle of an injured woman would not seem worth it. Do you agree?” He stared at the boy. “Straka has shown no particular interest in her since the beginning. Iros and Demetrios watch only me.”

  “It wasn’t Straka, Trevor.” Joseph shook his head. No, I think . . . ” Joseph faltered and cleared his throat. “I think she may have run away.”

  Trevor growled again and sprinted to the top step, grabbing Joseph’s shoulder. “And why would you think that? She cannot even stand, let alone run.”

  “I don’t know, but men could be hired to carry her. The marchioness and Miss Breedlowe do her bidding without question. I’m just suggesting—”

  “What you suggest,” said Trevor, shoving the boy back against the opposite wall, “is that you know more than you are letting on. I left you here to guard her. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” A tear tumbled down Joseph’s cheek, and he tried to block his face from Trevor’s view. “I failed you, Trev, I’m sorry. I should have known the errand to the market was a trick.”

  Trevor made a sound of frustrated agony, overwhelmed with the terror knifing through his body. He lowered his face an inch from Joseph’s. “I’m going to ask you one more time. If you know anything, anything at all about where she might be or how she left, tell me now. The truth. Think very hard about how you answer because I love you like a brother, Joseph, I honestly do, but by God, I’ll turn you out into the street without a backward glance if you lie to me now.”

  “I know nothing more than I’ve told you,” the boy said, looking him squarely in the eye. “Except we’re wasting time. I know you’re afraid, but let us work together to find someone who will give us clues. We should be looking for something she left behind.”

  Trevor gave him a hard, heavy look, and then released his shoulder and stepped back. Swearing, he spun around and raked a shaky hand through his hair. “Run away, you said? Why would she run away?”

  Joseph shrugged. “Well . . . ”

  “Say it,” Trevor ordered through gritted teeth.

  “You know as well as I do that you were going to leave her, Trev. She loved you, and you were going to leave her so you could be free.” His voice was thick with tears.

  Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to acknowledge this truth. He’d known it even before the boy said it.

  If he’d driven her to run in her fragile condition, he would never forgive himself.

  Joseph could not look at him—an awkward hurt that he would not soon forget—but there was no time for recriminations. “If I’ve caused her to run,” Trevor said lowly, “I’m sure Miss Breedlowe can be found at her side.” He glanced at Joseph. “You have been right all along. I’m sorry I doubted you, Joe.”

  “I understand, my lord. We will find her. Shall we go to the marchioness?”

  “No,” he said, turning. “Bring me your ladylove. The maid. Marissa.”

  Marissa was thankfully easy to crack. Within fifteen seconds, she hid her face in her hands and shook her head mutely, seemingly too overset to even sob. Piety was running away. From him. His wife could scarcely sit up, but she wanted to free herself from him so badly, she’d devoted her few lucid moments to planning an elaborate escape.

  When the interrogation was finished, Trevor was confident that the maid knew very little, indeed. How clever they were to keep Marissa in the dark, especially since they had not taken her with them to wherever they had gone. He could easily bully her into spilling her deepest secrets—if only she had secrets to tell.

  He shoved his chair back and waved the maid away.

  Dear God, he’d only left her side for an hour! The pressing need to locate the bloody viscount had hovered over his head like an ax. When the man said he would see him, Trevor had no choice but to go. It was the fastest meeting possible, and Trevor had come away with the same feeling he’d had from the start: He could not bring himself to blackmail this man. It would be a great dishonor, not to mention, he would never succeed. Rainsleigh was too powerful and too smart.

  When the meeting was over, he had raced back to Henrietta Place, only to discover the women had been waiting days for just such a moment. According to Marissa, they’d stolen out of the house as soon as he’d gone and Joseph was dispatched to the market. Piety lay prone on stretcher while grooms conveyed her to a hired carriage.

  The timing had been impeccable.

  Trevor yearned to hit something. He yearned to pound the coachman and the grooms who consented to move a sick woman down stairs and into the damp morning fog merely because she waved a bag of coin. He wanted to rage at the new staff for slipping away for the same bloody reason. And the marchioness? She was the worst of all! What in God’s name had she been thinking not to put a stop to such a reckless plan.

  But mostly, he ached to hold his wife. To see for himself that she was safe, and well, his.

  He had to find her. He would find her. Maybe she could no longer bear him. Maybe his self-involved remoteness or his cryptic distractedness became too much. Maybe she’d simply stopped caring. In any instance, he would not permit her give up. Her affection may have finally snapped,
but the depth of his commitment was endless.

  He had never been more prepared to convince her to give him a second, third, fourth, hundredth chance.

  How many times had he failed her? Too many to count, but she could not give up on him now. Not when he had finally, stupidly, belatedly—but comprehensively—been jolted into acknowledging his deep and abiding love.

  Not when he was more determined than ever to cast off Straka.

  Not now.

  Please Piety, he prayed in his head. Not yet. Come back to me.

  He watched Joseph lead Marissa, quivery and mournful, from the room, his brain spinning for his next play, when the girl let fly a kernel of useful information.

  Sniffling and mumbling as she leaned on Joseph, she said, “Even the marchioness does not know the location of her sick room. That is why Miss Breedlowe is to visit Lady Frinfrock every night. Her ladyship is anxious for reports on her progress. If they won’t tell Lady Frinfrock where she is, why would the tell me?”

  “Wait,” Trevor ordered.

  The maid froze, realizing what she’d said, and she collapsed into Joseph’s arms, hiding her face. Joseph shot Trevor an irritated look and patted her gently. “Let me, Trev. You’ve terrorized her enough.” Whispering, he asked, “When, muffin? When will Miss Breedlowe visit the marchioness?”

  “Every night,” the maid said into Joseph’s shirt. “Every night at eight o’clock. But I’ll be sacked if they find out I told you.”

  “No one will be sacked,” the earl said, reaching for his hat, shoving it on his head. “How does she come?”

  “I’m to meet Miss Breedlowe at the stable door and follow her inside the house so she may call upon the marchioness. If Lady Piety requires anything from the house, I’m to run and fetch it.”

  The earl studied her for a moment, rolling the new information around in his head. Finally, he nodded and turned away.

  They chose to approach Miss Breedlowe after her next nightly meeting with the marchioness. If Lady Frinfrock learned that Trevor was on Piety’s trail, she might move all of London to relocate Piety before Trevor had a chance to find her.