The Last Earl Standing
Gemma Blackwood
Copyright © by Gemma Blackwood
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Standalones
The Duke’s Defiant Debutante
Destiny’s Duchess
Redeeming the Rakes
The Duke Suggests a Scandal
Taming the Wild Captain
Let the Lady Decide
Make Me a Marchioness
Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall
The Earl’s Secret Passion
The Duke’s Hidden Desire
The Lady He Longed For
The Baron’s Inconvenient Bride
The Impossible Balfours
A Duke She Can’t Refuse
The Last Earl Standing
A Viscount is a Girl’s Best Friend
No Dukes Need Apply - Coming Jan 2020
What an Heiress Wants - Coming Feb 2020
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
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1
What sort of girl was so unsentimental that her heart did not even flutter when she had the good fortune to receive not one, but two letters declaring passionate love?
Lady Anthea Balfour, that was who. And if another such lady existed, Anthea longed to meet her. They might take the opportunity to converse about sensible topics – politics, perhaps, charitable works, even agriculture – rather than simpering and giggling together in corners as so many love-crazed young Misses were wont to do.
Anthea set aside the two love letters that had arrived for her that morning with a heavy sigh.
It was not that the gentlemen in question were not eligible. Far from it. Lord Shrewsbury was one of society’s darlings, his easiness with money a matter of legend. Lord Wetherton, author of the second letter, had a fortune as large as it was mysterious.
Either one would make an ideal match for the sister of a duke. If Anthea were a different sort of person, she would have been overjoyed. Designing her wedding gown. Planning out the guest list in her head.
Anthea drummed her fingers on her desk and regarded the letters suspiciously, cursing her inquisitive mind. While it might be flattering to believe that she had somehow caught the eye of two eligible bachelors at once, she could not bring herself to trust the passionate sentiments overflowing from each letter.
The love letters were only the latest symptom of a strange madness that had recently infected the two noblemen. Anthea had already suffered through an unexpected proposal from each of them – on separate occasions, thank heavens. Since she had offered no encouragement to either gentleman, it did not seem fair that she was forced to find the words to gently turn them down. Even worse, it was now clear that neither Lord Shrewsbury nor Lord Wetherton had bothered to listen to her refusal.
All this sudden attention struck her as distinctly odd.
If she had cared for either gentleman’s company, she would have set about solving the mystery. But, since she did not…
The two letters sat on her desk, their elegant looping handwriting looking back at her accusingly. Anthea knew exactly what to do with them, and, if she were flighty, she would have imagined that the letters resented it.
She was going to throw them on the fire.
Anthea was crumpling up the first letter, letting out a sigh of relief at the thought of being rid of the troublesome thing, when her door was knocked upon and opened in one excitable motion.
Her youngest sister, Edith, bounced into the room.
“Thea! What on earth have you got there? No, never mind that – look what I have to show you!” Edith slammed a rustling newspaper down on top of the second letter. “I stole it from Alex’s breakfast tray,” she confided, though Anthea had not asked.
The butler would doubtless suffer a fit of consternation on finding the duke’s breakfast tray without its newspaper, but Anthea suspected her brother would be too wrapped up in his newly-wed wife’s embrace that morning to mind. She took up the paper and read the headline.
“The Prime Minister has fallen out with the Foreign Secretary again. What of it?”
“Further down!” Edith bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, practically clapping her hands with glee. Anthea’s eyes travelled down the page.
“My word,” she breathed. “Can it be…?”
It certainly could. The latest opinion piece by the mysterious Lady X was in prime position in the leading column on the right-hand side of the front page.
“Mr Harding is such a cad!” laughed Anthea. “He didn’t tell me I had made the front page!”
“And it is very right that you did.” Edith opened the paper to page three, where the column continued. Anthea put her hand over her eyes. It was one thing to write her opinions in strident terms on her own notepaper, and quite another to see them printed out in incontrovertible black and white. Edith pulled Anthea’s hand down again and bestowed a glowing smile upon her. “Lady X sells more newspapers than all the other articles combined.”
“Don’t be silly. It is more likely that the subject I chose this week is popular. That’s all.”
Edith caught up the paper again and began scanning the lines. “What is it about?”
Anthea laughed. “Do you mean to say you didn’t even bother to read it?”
“I was too excited! Isn’t it enough that I brought it up?” A furrow appeared between Edith’s brows. “An Act of Parliament? Gracious, I thought that it would at least be a scandalous love affair.”
“Love affairs do not interest the discerning readers of the London Chronicle.” Anthea took it back from her sister and folded it up carefully. “The proposed Excise Act for Scotch whisky, however, is much more appealing. Every gentleman loves a tipple. I’d lay money that there’s a bottle of illegal whisky in most of the great houses in England.”
“Alex doesn’t have one.”
“Alex is a stickler for the rules.” Anthea rolled up the newspaper and tapped it lightly against Edith’s forehead. “Which is why he will never discover the true identity of Lady X.”
“I wouldn’t dream of telling!” Edith’s attention was caught, somewhat predictably, by the letter still lying on the table. “Oh ho! Here’s my idea of fun.” She snatched the letter up before Anthea could stop her. A gasp of delight made a round O of her mouth. “Who is it that thinks your eyes reflect the glow of every star in the heavens?”
“Edith Balfour, you will give me that letter this instant!”
“Lord Wetherton!” Edith sighed, ignoring her as s
he read on. “I never thought he had it in him! He is always so aloof.” She let Anthea snatch the letter from her, laughing. “Well, have you written him a reply?”
“Certainly not.” Anthea crumpled the letter against the one from Lord Shrewsbury, creating a large paper ball. “And I deplore his cheek in writing to me without permission.” She could not resist adding, with a wink, “Though I admit that I am impressed Lord Shrewsbury did the same.”
“The Earl of Shrewsbury, too!” Edith flung a hand to her forehead and staggered around, pretending to faint. “Fetch my smelling salts!”
“Oh, Edith.” Anthea threw the letters onto the fire and watched the flames catch them. “Don’t tell me that wet blanket of a man has caught your eye.”
“Not in the slightest.” Edith stopped her staggering. “But he is awfully rich, you know. He is always talking about his enormous fortune.”
“Well, when I have a need to marry for money, I will write back to him without delay.”
“You will not be able to avoid him for long,” Edith reminded her. “I believe he and Lord Wetherton will be at Mrs Anderson’s ball tonight.” She grinned wickedly. “Suppose they both ask you to dance?”
“Then I will dance with both of them and try to restrain myself from being too charming. I wouldn’t wish to be cruel.”
“Tell them about the Excise Act,” Edith suggested. “That ought to put them off. I know it would work for me. Oh! I almost forgot. Aunt Ursula wants to see us. She is giving us all a piece of jewellery to wear to the ball.” Edith pinched her lips together as though disguising an emotion she thought beneath her. “Isobel will have the emeralds, of course, as she’s the favourite, and Selina will have the pearls – she looks so lovely in them – so you and I can hope for a garnet, I suppose.”
Anthea put her arm around Edith’s shoulders and gave her a little shake. “You would be a great favourite of Aunt Ursula’s if you spent as much time sitting with her as Isobel does. As it is, you tear about the house like a mad thing from dawn till dusk, and I would not trust you with fine jewellery, either. You are liable to lose it.”
“You are right,” Edith sighed. “Though I wish any of you understood what a trial it is to be as clumsy as I am! Very well. I shall accept my garnet with good grace. Only you must do me a favour, Thea, and tell Alex that you stole the newspaper. I shall be in such trouble if he knows I crept down into the servant’s quarters to get it.”
“I know how to handle our brother.” Anthea kissed the top of Edith’s head. “Off you go to Aunt Ursula, then, and I will see that the newspaper finds its rightful home.” Alexander would not begrudge Anthea the first reading of it. He enjoyed debating with her about the issues of the day. Anthea prided herself on the notion that she could make a speech every bit as eloquently as a lord in the Houses of Parliament.
The ball that evening, however, would require something much more subtle than a shaken fist and a passionate discourse.
Two earls were set on winning her hand. She intended to give it to neither of them.
All the ingredients for an extremely embarrassing situation were in place. It would take all Anthea’s guile to avoid it.
2
“Careful, Streatham,” said his friend, Sir Julian Stuart, as their carriage made its winding way through the lamplit streets of Mayfair. “We are here for work tonight, not pleasure. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were setting out to enjoy yourself.”
George Bonneville, Earl of Streatham, adjusted his top hat so that it sat at a rakishly low angle. He gave his colleague a wicked grin. “Enjoy myself? I certainly will! What could be more thrilling than a secret assignment for the Crown?”
Julian reached forwards and knocked the hat from George’s head. “You know precisely how to grate on my nerves. I know that devilish look in your eye. You had the same expression just before everything went wrong in Prague.”
“Oh, that was not my fault. Who was to know the enemy agent was a woman in disguise?”
“And that mission in Vienna. We were lucky to escape with our lives.”
“If I recall correctly, you also escaped with lip paint on your cheek.”
“Not to mention what happened in Paris.”
“Ah, Paris.” George sighed luxuriantly and picked his hat back up, brushing off the dust. “Don’t you miss it, Julian? Travelling about the Continent, uncovering state secrets and braving hidden dangers at every turn?”
“I don’t miss it in the slightest, and if you had any sense, nor would you.” Julian gestured irritably to George’s exquisite suit. “Look at you! You’ve inherited an earldom. Anyone with a lick of sense would have quit while they were ahead.”
“And you have been knighted,” George pointed out. “We are both blessed with the best of fortune. And yet here we are.”
“Here we are,” Julian agreed. The two men exchanged a smile that was as grim as it was satisfied.
No one had ever claimed that life as an agent of the Crown was without danger. Yet, for all the peril – and, sadly, paperwork – George knew that Julian was as unlikely to give it up as he was.
Once you had tasted the thrill of subterfuge, it was hard to retire to a life of dinner parties and land management. He might be Earl of Streatham, but he was Agent Bonneville too.
And that night they had a particularly slippery target to catch.
“Let’s go over everything one more time,” said Julian, as their carriage approached the townhouse of the esteemed Mr and Mrs Anderson. George could have recited the plan backwards from memory, but he did not object. Everyone had their own routine in the moments before a mission. A way of ensuring that luck would not desert them at an inopportune moment. Some men took a swig of brandy, others puffed on a fine cigar. Julian liked to repeat the details of their plan until everyone else was sick of them.
George was just as human as the rest of them and had a little routine of his own. But his was carried out entirely in private. As far as his partner knew, he was as cool as ice from the moment they received their instructions till the time came to turn in their final report.
“I will circulate around the room, conversing with every member of the House of Lords I can find.” Julian’s fingers drummed rhythmically on his knee, slightly off beat with his words. “I will mention that my sister is fond of our target and make enquiries as to his good character.”
“You will be lucky to find anyone willing to publicly disparage him at a ball,” said George. “Particularly if his hold over his victims is as strong as our information suggests.”
“Nevertheless, it is worth a try.” Julian nodded at George. “You will endear yourself to Lord Wetherton and his friends. You will remain at his side from the start of the evening until the end. You will take careful note of everyone he speaks to, everyone he looks at, everyone he asks to dance. If he steps outside for air, you will make an excuse to follow.”
“In short, I will not give the man a second alone all evening.” George flexed his fingers speculatively, as though he could settle Lord Wetherton’s villainy with a well-placed fist. “He will not ensnare another young fool on my watch.” The carriage came to a halt. “Though it may all come to nothing, you know. We have only the slightest suspicion to go on. The man may well be innocent.”
“Then we will clear his name.” Julian’s fingers ceased their tapping and the tension left his face. He transformed in an instant from the tense, serious agent to a laughing young gentleman anticipating a night of dissolute pleasure. “After you, Streatham.”
George stepped from the carriage into a blaze of colour. The Andersons had spared no expense on their ball. Candles in jewel-coloured glasses glimmered all the way up the path to the front door. Garlands of perfumed flowers straight from the hothouse twined through the railings and bobbed gently above the heads of the guests walking inside. The guests themselves were a sight to behold. Dresses of shimmering silk, waistcoats lavishly embroidered in blue, red, and gold, polished gems shining from every
finger and adorning each lady’s neck, wrists, and hair.
George swept the hat from his head and made a deep bow to a duchess as she sailed gracefully up the front steps.
“You old charmer,” Julian muttered, stepping past him to present their invitation to the footman. They joined the queue of people waiting to be announced and to make their grand entrance into the ballroom. The duchess, two places ahead of George and Julian, elicited a murmur of surprise that was audible even in the corridor.
“Make sure you speak to her,” murmured George, catching Julian’s eye. “Her husband is on the list of men suspected to be in Wetherton’s pocket.”
“The duke? Good lord.” Julian plucked at his cravat nervously. Unlike George, he had not been born as heir to anything much. Julian’s title had been given for services to the Crown, which in George’s opinion made it far more meaningful than any earldom. But he knew his friend was not yet used to the fact that he was the social equal of most of the landed gentry in the room. George gave him a friendly punch on the arm.
“Come now! She’s only a duchess.”
Julian gave George a wry smile. “Let’s hope she’s as susceptible to flattery as the kitchen maids of Berlin.”
Just as the footman at the door was about to announce them, George beckoned him closer to ask a question. “Excuse me, my good chap. Is Lord Wetherton already here?”
“Certainly, my lord.” The footman pointed across the ballroom to a group of three guests, two gentlemen and a golden-haired lady, standing a little way apart from the dancers. “There he is with Lord Shrewsbury and Lady Anthea Balfour.”
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