The Formidable Earl

by Sophie Barnes

  With a shake of his head, he climbed the steps to his front door with hard and determined footfalls. Once inside, he handed his hat and gloves to Deerford, his butler.

  “Mr. Elliot Nugent stopped by earlier this evening,” Deerford said. “He wished to extend his apologies for not being able to meet with you tomorrow for luncheon.”

  Simon stilled. He’d completely forgotten the plans he’d made with his uncle. As he was the only close family Simon had left in London, the two made an effort to meet once a week to catch up. “Did he suggest a different time?”

  “Drinks at his home tomorrow evening, if you’re able.”

  “Thank you, Deerford.” Simon wished the butler a good night and turned away, his thoughts returning to Miss Strong. Distractedly, he climbed the stairs and entered his bedchamber where Gun, his valet, helped him prepare for bed.

  “My lord?” Gun inquired with a frown once the task had been accomplished.

  “Hmm?”

  “I was wondering if there’s anything else you require?”

  For a second, Simon was tempted to say, “Yes, please hit me over the head with something so I may forget what I’ve gotten myself into.”

  Of course, that would only incite his servant’s curiosity, and besides, Simon very much doubted anything in the world would be able to make him forget the woman who presently slept at Number Five Bedford Street. She embodied an innocent beauty he’d not seen in any woman before – the sort that could easily lend inspiration to poets. Not even Gabriella was as lovely as she. How unfortunate that circumstance had brought her to this point in her young life.

  Tired and choosing to favor privacy for as long as he could, Simon shook his head in answer to Gun’s question, relieved him of his duties, and went straight to bed. Lord knew he needed the rest for whatever tomorrow had in store.

  When Ida woke the next morning, she stretched and rubbed her eyes before sitting and glancing around. It took her brain a second to adjust and recall why she was in unfamiliar surroundings.

  Oh.

  Right.

  She groaned and flopped back against her pillow. The room she was in, the bed in which she’d slept more comfortably than ever before, belonged to the Earl of Fielding. This was his house and he would arrive at some point during the day so they could discuss their new arrangement.

  Another groan left her. What on earth had she been thinking, allying herself with him, a man who represented self-importance, entitlement, and disdain for the common man? He was everything she’d come to despise these past few years, and yet here she was, trusting him with her greatest secrets.

  “I must have gone mad,” she muttered when she finally found the courage to climb out from under the lovely warm blankets and face the brisk morning chill. Hugging herself, she fought the instinct to curl her toes into the floorboards. Instead, she hurried across to the chair where she’d placed her clothes. It might be the middle of May, but with the recent weather they’d been having, it felt more like late October.

  After donning her stockings and fastening the front of her serviceable stays, Ida moved to the washstand. She fought a shiver and went to work, reminding herself that while she might lack accomplishments and wealth, there was no need for anyone to question her cleanliness. It was one of the things her mother had striven to teach her; no matter what, appearances mattered. It was up to the individual to make sure they made a good impression.

  With this in mind, Ida opened her satchel and pulled out a day dress cut from sage green muslin. Although it was slightly crumpled, it would have to do. The one she’d worn the day before had gotten a tear in the side while she’d struggled with her assailant.

  Like the rest of the dresses she owned, the one she’d selected was made with practicality in mind. Easy to put on over her head, it contained a ribbon running beneath the breast which could be tied to cinch the back together in order to create an elegant pleat. Pleased with her appearance when she stepped before the cheval glass a few minutes later, Ida gave herself a satisfied nod and went to explore the rest of the house.

  Behind the other upstairs doors she’d passed last night were stairs leading up to the servants’ quarters, an extra bedroom, and a small sitting room which had no doubt been intended as a private retreat where Fielding’s mother could take her tea in a less formal setting. An ache bloomed within Ida’s heart. She’d known a similar room once. Her mother had loved sitting near the bright sunny window it had contained, working away on her knitting while Ida’s father read a book. Everything had been perfect before the war. Ida’s world had been filled with happiness and love.

  How swiftly life could change.

  With a shake of her head she chastised herself for her maudlin thoughts and headed downstairs. It was pointless reflecting on something that would remain lost forever.

  Better to look ahead.

  She opened a door and surveyed the parlor. It was small, but comfortable. So were the dining room and the library. The study had been done up in a feminine style and fitted with an elegant escritoire that she immediately fell in love with. It made sense that the earl had meant for his mother to live here. The house was clearly intended to house a woman, not a man, and whoever had furnished it had done so sparingly, albeit with an eye for good taste.

  Ida’s stomach grumbled, alerting her to her increasing hunger. It was time to locate the kitchen and find some food. But after rummaging through all the cabinets and inspecting the larder, the only edible items she came up with were some stale biscuits.

  At least there was tea.

  Grabbing a jug, Ida stepped out into the small back courtyard where the water pump stood. Within ten minutes she had the water she needed, had filled a kettle, and lit the stove. Fifteen minutes later, she perched herself on a stool and sampled her efforts while glancing around, wondering what to do next. Fielding hadn’t been very precise when he’d departed last night. He’d just told her they’d speak tomorrow, so it could be late afternoon before he decided to rise, finished conversing with the secretary he likely employed, and remembered to check on her. By which time she would likely have starved to death.

  She reached for one of the stale biscuits, puffed out a breath, and took a bite. It tasted all right, but the texture was awful – like trying to chew through a stack of paper. Nevertheless, she finished it off and ate two more. It was either that or feel like her stomach was being ripped open from within.

  Once done, she returned to the hallway, taking another cup of tea with her, and studied the clock. Her shoulders sagged. It was only a few minutes after nine – a measly hour since she’d woken. At this rate she’d soon be rearranging furniture out of sheer boredom.

  Unless of course she used her time productively.

  Turning her back on the odious clock, she went to the study and took a seat at the escritoire. It didn’t take long for her to locate the items required to pen a letter. All the necessary supplies were in a drawer.

  With a quick inhale, she dipped her quill in the ink well.

  Dear Philipa,

  Upon reaching Windham House last night, I learned that Guthrie has travelled and will not return for the next three weeks, so I have sought help elsewhere. Please do not fret, for I am perfectly safe, though I prefer not to say where in writing.

  Hopefully, I shall see you again soon.

  With love,

  Ida

  Happy with the message, Ida blotted the ink, folded the paper, and sealed it with a blob of red wax. She’d have to ask Fielding to have it delivered, today if possible.

  Refusing to look at the clock when she re-entered the hallway, Ida averted her gaze from it as she went to collect her knitting. There wasn’t much work left on the second half-glove she was making for herself, but the eyelet pattern had challenged her skill from the very beginning, and every once in a while she caught herself miscounting the stitches. Even so, she still managed to complete the accessory in just under an hour and proudly tried the pair on. She gave her hands a
satisfied smile. The gloves would serve her well come winter.

  Right. What next?

  There was always the library.

  Venturing into the neat room where four large bookcases stood against one wall with a loveseat opposite, Ida scanned the shelves and was happy to find a couple of cookbooks. They weren’t on prominent display but stuffed into a corner like surplus items from another household in hasty need of a new location.

  To Ida, they were like gold, for she loved discovering new recipes. Her mother had been an excellent cook and she’d taught Ida everything she knew. After she died, Ida had cooked for herself and her father, then occasionally for Philipa and the rest of the girls at Amourette’s whenever the cook there was sick or needed a rest.

  Leafing through the pages, Ida made a mental note of the recipes she’d like to try. She was especially fond of baking, so the tea buns and shortcakes tempted her most while the soups held less appeal. Recalling the escritoire, she pursed her lips and went to fetch some writing utensils. It was now just after eleven. By the time she’d finished jotting down all the ingredients she’d need for the buns and the stew she’d decided to try, it was half past twelve.

  Returning to the foyer, Ida stared at the front door and willed Fielding to open it – to arrive so they could get on with the day. Instead, the clock kept ticking away the seconds at an infernally slow pace. To her annoyance, Ida realized she was starting to get hungry again. All that thinking about delicious food had not been the best idea after all. Reading something tedious like The Canterbury Tales might have been wiser. It would at the very least have put her straight back to sleep and saved her from standing here, hoping a man she barely knew would add some excitement to her day.

  When he still hadn’t shown up half an hour later, she made her decision. With the money she’d brought along from Amourette’s stashed in her pocket, she exited through the back door and set off at a brisk pace. If Fielding showed up before she returned, then he could wait for her for a change.

  Chapter Four

  As was his custom, Simon rose early. He was always up before eight because he enjoyed taking his time getting ready, eating his breakfast, and reading his paper before his daily meeting with Winthorp, his secretary. By eleven-thirty he’d managed to go over his most urgent correspondence and information pertaining to a few investments.

  “I’ll be stepping out for the rest of the day,” he told Winthorp. “Do you think you can manage without me?”

  “Of course. I’ll make sure The Rockport Company is made aware of your suggestion regarding the acquisition of iron from the colonies.”

  “It will be a heavy shipment, but I daresay it will be worth it with industry on the rise.”

  “You’re probably right, sir.”

  Simon nodded. “And don’t forget about declining the invitation I received from the Warwicks.” He hadn’t the time or the patience to bother with social events at the moment. Until Matthew’s case was solved, Miss Strong would have to take precedence.

  “Duly noted. I can also update the ledgers if you like.”

  “That would be helpful. Thank you.” Assured Winthorp had everything well in hand, Simon set off. Taking Pall Mall and The Strand would definitely be the fastest, but doing so was also most likely to cause an encounter with someone he knew. Disinterested in having to stop for an exchange of pleasantries or, God forbid, to tell someone where he was headed or what his plans were for the day, he chose to use the less popular back roads instead.

  After heading north to Jermyn Street he crossed to Orange Street which ran behind the royal mews in an eastern direction. A few small out of the way shops were located here, their rents much lower than on the more popular thoroughfares.

  Drawn by a cobbler’s window, Simon took a moment to admire the sleek lines and high polished gleam of the boots on display. He could always use another pair. Except having his feet measured would take time he really didn’t have to waste. And besides, he was actually rather eager to see Miss Strong again. Not that she herself drew him. To suppose such a thing would be utterly absurd. No, it was the cause he was now a part of. He wanted to get on with it, make a plan, see justice served on Matthew’s behalf.

  That was all there was to it.

  Simple and uncomplicated.

  He resumed walking, only to halt once again when he came level with a florist. Women liked flowers. Perhaps he should buy a nice bouquet for Miss Strong in celebration of their new partnership. He frowned. She might misconstrue the offering as an attempt on his part to seduce her. Then again, she might also appreciate it since he doubted she’d ever received such a thing before. Roses were nice. Everyone liked them. Surely she would as well.

  Decision made, he entered the shop. A tinkling bell announced his arrival, albeit unnecessarily since a female customer was already being tended to by a clerk while two more waited.

  They glanced his way on account of the bell, nearly tempting him to mutter something about being in the wrong place and walking away. But no. He was a man and he had a purpose. He’d not be intimidated or chased away. Certainly not by a group of women he didn’t know.

  Simon cleared his throat, touched the brim of his hat, and wished them all a good morning. Three pairs of eyebrows rose before the women returned his greeting and gave their attention back to the front of the shop.

  Taking a deep breath, Simon went to the end of the line and waited to be served. There was only one reason a man visited a hothouse, and that was to buy flowers for a woman, most commonly one he hoped to marry.

  Tamping down his rising panic as best as he could, he forced himself to remain completely still and seemingly indifferent to his surroundings. Why on earth had he thought buying flowers for Miss Strong would be a good idea? He really couldn’t recall.

  It was almost his turn when the bell chimed again, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Simon instinctively turned and almost groaned when he saw who it was: his former fiancée’s mother, the Countess of Warwick – the very same woman whose invitation his secretary was presently turning down – and most importantly, London’s biggest gossip.

  What the devil was she doing here in this inconspicuous place?

  With a tight smile strategically slapped into place, Simon greeted the lady in a manner he hoped would be considered polite. “Lady Warwick. What a delightful coincidence.”

  Her eyes widened even more than they had when she’d first spotted him. “Indeed. I was just about to say the very same thing.”

  Doing his best to appear completely at home among all the blooms the shop had to offer, he schooled his features and casually asked, “What brings you here?”

  She shuffled into position behind him and motioned for the maid who’d accompanied her to stay by her side. “The fashionable shops are always so overcrowded,” the lady declared. “Coming here is a far more pleasurable experience. I come once a week to order fresh flowers for my home, and allium is currently the flower to have in ornamental displays. I simply must buy some. After all, one has to remain de rigueur if one is to lead by example. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Christ have mercy.

  Simon stared at Lady Warwick. “My Latin may be a tad rusty, but if I’m not mistaken, allium is garlic.”

  Lady Warwick blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Decorating your home with it would certainly be different.” While he was sure the purple flowers could look lovely in a vase, it seemed like the women who let themselves be swept away by such trends were allowing the wool to be pulled over their eyes.

  “I’m sure you must be mistaken,” Lady Warwick said with a dismissive chuckle. “I would never put vegetables on display and neither would any of the ladies of my acquaintance.”

  Simon briefly considered informing her that garlic was in fact an herb, only to think better of it. Instead, he contemplated his own susceptibility to the influence of others. Who the hell was he to judge Lady Warwick, to laugh at her gullibility, when he himself was no bette
r? Hell, he was probably worse. At least she was willing to be seen with her son-in-law, a man who’d been raised in the slums of St. Giles, trained as a bare-knuckle boxer. Huntley might be a duke now, but his past would never be truly forgotten among the gentry.

  By contrast, Simon worried what people would say when they eventually saw him with Miss Strong. Would they approve of her appearance and conduct? Would they find her as stunning as he did? Would other women wish they were as pretty as she? Most importantly, would he mind if they didn’t?

  Disgust raked through him. He hated that he had such contemplations – hated himself for caring so bloody much over which waistcoat he put on or whether his cravat was tied in the latest style. “According to some,” he told the countess without even thinking, “setting oneself apart, being different, is far more admirable than skittering after the Pied Piper’s tune.”

  “To do so,” Lady Warwick murmured, “takes more courage than most possess.”

  Dismayed by the unexpected insightfulness suggestive of self-deprecation, Simon failed to voice a response. He simply didn’t know what to say.

  “Next please.”

  Simon gave the clerk his full attention. “I would like to purchase a bouquet of roses. White, if possible.” Red seemed too romantic. A neutral color would be best.

  Lady Warwick made a huffing sound from behind his right shoulder.

  Simon felt his brow crease with annoyance. “You disapprove?”

  “Well, it’s just a very predictable choice.”

  Returning his attention to the clerk, Simon told her firmly. “A large bouquet of white roses would be much appreciated.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the clerk said as she disappeared into a back room. She returned moments later with a gorgeous selection of half open white roses surrounded by long, leafy accent bits in a bright shade of green.