Earl of Oakhurst

by Madeline Martin

  Earl of Oakhurst

  Madeline Martin

  Copyright 2019 © Madeline Martin

  EARL OF OAKHURST © 2019 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.

  * * *

  EARL OF OAKHURST is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Jaycee DeLorenzo @ Sweet ’N Spicy Designs.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Madeline Martin

  Prologue

  Lochslin Castle, Scotland

  October 1819

  * * *

  James MacKenzie knew how many ounces of whisky would fit in the false bottom of a carriage. He knew the best path from Scotland through England to avoid the Runners and the exact place on a man’s head to hit to make him drop like a stone. He even knew how many glasses of whisky it took to make him lose his senses. Eight. And every time he swore it’d never happen again.

  What he did not know, however, was how to be an earl. Or at least nothing beyond what was required of a valet.

  According to the letter in MacKenzie’s hand, he would now require such instruction, as he was the very improbable, and quite unprepared, Earl of Oakhurst.

  Rich laughter rose up from the overstuffed chair by the fireplace where MacKenzie’s friend, Alistair, the Earl of Benton, raised a glass in mock salute to MacKenzie. “To the Earl of Oakhurst.”

  Alistair’s mother, Madge, threw her wiry red hair over her skinny shoulder. “Losin’ another fine Scotsman to the likes of England.” She splashed more whisky into her glass and quit the room with a muttered string of curses.

  MacKenzie watched her leave and continued to stare at the closed door as his mind reeled with the news he’d been dealt that morning. “I dinna know the first thing about being an earl.”

  Alistair scoffed and tossed the remnants of his whisky down his throat. Firelight caught the cut crystal glass and set it to twinkling. “Ye know more than ye think. The hardest thing about it is—” he put up one finger “—debutantes.” Then another finger lifted. “And having to let a valet do every bloody thing for ye.”

  MacKenzie, who had spent the last five years as Alistair’s valet, smirked at his former employer. “Ye’ll be someone else’s problem, going forward.”

  “I willna need a valet here in Scotland.” Alistair got to his feet and poured himself an additional finger of whisky. “I only regret I willna be joining ye in London to reintroduce ye to society. No’ with Emma so close to the babe’s birth.” The cocky grin on his face broadened to one of genuine joy at the expectation of his second child.

  MacKenzie indicated the letter in his hand. “My grandmother is quite willing to accompany me.”

  It had been far too long since he’d seen her. Seven years, at least. When his uncle had died of an apoplexy and the earldom was left to his son, Gilbert—the arrogant popinjay—and the woman MacKenzie had been courting transferred her affections to the new earl. MacKenzie had fled to the Scottish estate he’d inherited from his mother to reunite with her family, which was where he’d stumbled upon Alistair.

  They’d been fast friends, the two of them, both with Scottish blood that clashed with English roots. Both trying to outrun their English titles that might one day catch up with them. MacKenzie had considered himself fortunate to have escaped his title, especially when Alistair was snagged so early on.

  It appeared MacKenzie’s luck had not held.

  The letter didn’t mention how Gilbert had met his demise, but MacKenzie wouldn’t be surprised to learn it had something to do with too much drink or a whore or a fight, or any combination of the three.

  “Lord Kendal will be there to assist ye with navigating the ton.” Alistair lifted the lid of a small wooden box on his desk. “He’s no’ working with whisky runners anymore, but I’m certain he’s got some new scheme up his sleeve by now.” Alistair approached MacKenzie and held out a small gold object.

  MacKenzie took it, examining the “W” pin. The symbol of a member of the Wicked Earls’ Club, London’s most exclusive gentleman’s club for earls, where the wickedest the ton had to offer, gathered. Rakes and rogues, scoundrels and smugglers, gamblers and fighters and every sort in between.

  Alistair clapped a hand on MacKenzie’s shoulder. “They’ll welcome ye with open arms.”

  MacKenzie held the pin in the palm of his hand, still extended toward Alistair. “What about ye?”

  “Alistair.” A woman’s soft voice came from the other side of the door, accompanied by the clicking of paws of their golden-haired dog, Beast. “Are you two still in there?”

  The grin on Alistair’s face widened. “I dinna need the pin anymore.”

  The door opened and a woman with brown hair entered the room. She was proceeded by a very large, very round belly and a bounding Beast who propelled himself into Alistair’s legs, nearly knocking him over.

  “Good evening, Lady Benton.” MacKenzie offered a courteous bow.

  She laughed and curtseyed as well as she could in such a delicate state. “Good evening, Lord Oakhurst. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking my husband back now.”

  “Of course, my lady.” MacKenzie bowed again. The way a valet did when given instructions.

  Alistair chuckled and shook his head at MacKenzie. “It would appear the hardest part for ye may no’ be letting a valet do everything for ye, but no’ being a valet yerself.”

  MacKenzie scowled at his old friend, which only made Alistair chuckle harder. The Earl of Benton swept toward his countess with Beast trotting behind him, and together they quit the library, leaving MacKenzie alone with his misgivings about his new title.

  It had taken over four months for the solicitors to find him, as he’d lost touch with his family over the years. Most likely they had learned of his position as Alistair’s valet and traced him to Lochslin Castle. The ton would have opinions about his time as a valet. He knew he’d hear of it. As if they already didn’t shun him for his brogue.

  A wave of dread washed over him. He’d be returning to England. As an earl, to face everything an earl dealt with. The very things and people he’d run away from seven years ago.

  1

  London, England

  November 1819

  * * *

  If one imagined the journey from Scotland to England on the edge of winter would take a considerable amount of time, one would be horribly and completely wrong. The sun had shone with excessive cheeriness and the horses had raced over the dry roads as effortlessly as Helios’s chariot once flew through the open sky.

  MacKenzie was in London. More specifically at Oakhurst Place, the four-story cream-colored stucco townhouse that sat behind an ornately erected wrought iron fence. Imposing white columns of the Corinthian order framed either side of the narrow structure. His
grandfather had insisted on the bit of Grecian history being incorporated into the home and MacKenzie’s grandmother had readily agreed.

  MacKenzie’s trepidation softened. He was woefully lacking in what was expected of him, but he had always held great affection for the Dowager Countess of Oakhurst.

  His Hessians clicked up the walkway as the door opened to reveal a rather handsome butler with a head of thick black hair touched with silver at the temples.

  “Welcome, my lord.” The butler inclined his large, square-shaped jaw. “Lady Oakhurst has been expecting you.” The man might look like a prize-fighting bruiser, but he sounded as regal as any proper butler.

  MacKenzie strode into the vast entryway where the click of his boots turned into echoed clops upon the glossy marble flooring, and was promptly led up the stairs to the drawing room. The double doors flew open before he even reached the landing, and his grandmother burst through.

  She was shorter than he remembered, her face lined more by age. Her fingers seemed as fragile as birds’ bones where they gripped an ivory cane. Suddenly, the seven years of absence wrenched at his chest.

  She had been the one who had coddled him as a boy after his mother’s death, when he’d first been forced to move to England. His grandmother had fussed over his scraped knees and pressed kisses to his hot brow when he was burning with fever and held him as his heart broke with loss for his mum.

  And he had repaid her by leaving her to grow old and frail alone.

  “James.” Tears filled her eyes and she hobbled forward, her weight heavy upon her cane. “My sweet James. You’ve come home at last.” Her accent was as crisp as it’d ever been, her voice strong despite her delicate appearance.

  “Ye needn’t trouble yerself coming to me.” MacKenzie rushed to her side in two great strides, settling an arm under hers to lead her back into the drawing room.

  She leaned her scant weight on him and did not protest his aid. “George usually sees to me when I overexert myself.” She glanced back at the butler with a smile. “Don’t you, George?”

  “Of course, my lady.” The butler inclined his head.

  “He does take good care of me.” She allowed MacKenzie to assist her into the large seat. Her lavender gown spread elegantly on either side of her as she settled into the plush seat, the color indicative of her state of half mourning.

  MacKenzie took the seat opposite her and regarded her with scrutiny. She looked stronger by the daylight streaming in through the large drawing room window. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and her blue eyes bright. Her hair was the same steely gray beneath her lace cap that was trimmed with an excessive amount of ruffles.

  The door closed as the butler left to instruct a maid to bring them tea.

  “I’ve been gone too long,” MacKenzie began.

  His grandmother settled her small hand on his, those frail fingers weighing nearly nothing. She shook her head. “You needn’t explain. You are a young man who needed to see to his own affairs. No one expected Gilbert would…well…” She tilted her head in place of speaking. “You’re here now and that is all that matters.”

  “How did he…?” MacKenzie stopped the question before he could complete it.

  Lady Oakhurst withdrew her cool, dry hand and sighed so greatly that her small shoulders rose dramatically. “It would appear he drowned in the Serpentine.”

  MacKenzie nodded solemnly and swallowed his rising curiosity, out of consideration for his grandmother.

  She slid him a knowing look. “He was in his cups, of course,” she continued unabashedly. “As was the…” She rolled her eyes. “…female companion he was with.”

  MacKenzie winced. How accurate his initial presumption of his cousin’s death had been.

  “It was quite the scandal.” She lifted her chin with the same unflappable pride he’d always known her to possess.

  Unsure what more to say, MacKenzie glanced around the drawing room. It was exactly as he recalled from his boyhood. The silk-lined walls were the same pale blue, the polished dark wood furnishings laden with enough ornamental notions that he’d never been able to tell if they were new or old. Doubtless, it was safe to presume the latter.

  What of Lady Judith? He bit back the inquiry. He shouldn’t care about his cousin’s fiancée, who had been strung on for years. Especially not when she’d abandoned MacKenzie’s side for that of Gilbert’s when he inherited the earldom.

  “I dinna know how to be an earl,” he said instead. “I never imagined it would fall to me.”

  “Surely, you learned something useful in your time as a valet.” Lady Oakhurst raised her thin, gray brows at him.

  The maid entered the room before MacKenzie could reply. She moved between them as discreetly as was possible, setting the teacups out, along with a pot and several biscuits.

  “As I said, I dinna anticipate becoming an earl.” It was a flimsy excuse, but all he had. The reasons why he had left were buried too deep to dredge up now. “I thought I could live my life without the earldom hovering over me.”

  “The ton will not be forgiving of your former life, but you already know that.” Lady Oakhurst lifted the teapot with steady hands and filled MacKenzie’s cup. “In regard to the earldom, I can teach you what you need to know.” She attended to her own cup next and gracefully dropped in two lumps of sugar with pinched silver tongs.

  “I’ll be the most well-instructed earl in all of London.” MacKenzie held his teacup tight with his fingertips, lest he drop the dainty thing.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear James.” She lifted her cup. “You always were such the silver-tongued devil.” She shifted in her seat slightly and her face crumpled in pain. The teacup trembled in her hands, but through her characteristic iron will alone, she did not let the fragile porcelain loose.

  MacKenzie leapt to his feet and pulled the teacup from her fingers. “What is it, Gemma?”

  “This gout.” She pulled her hem aside to reveal one bare foot, the side of which was swollen with inflammation. “It’s so wretchedly painful, I cannot bear the slightest brush of anything against it.” She waved her hand dismissively and smiled up at him. “You’ve not called me Gemma for years. I like it and would prefer you continue to do so.”

  “Of course, Gemma.” He slowly returned to his seat, his muscles tense to come to her side again, should she require his aid.

  “Have ye summoned a physician?” MacKenzie continued to stare at the floor where her swollen foot was hidden beneath a swath of lavender silk.

  She nodded. “They tell me to limit my sherry and all the delicacies I enjoy. I think the pain of it is worth enduring when I consider what I must give up. But it’s nothing I wish to speak on now. I’d prefer to discuss your first task as earl.”

  There was a solemn note to her tone, which made a little ball of ice form in the pit of MacKenzie’s gut. “And that would be…?”

  “Marriage.”

  He groaned into his cup of tea.

  “I heard that,” Gemma chastened. “At least you need not seek out another eligible lady if you prefer. Your cousin left behind a betrothed I find to be quite suitable. One you know rather well, I believe.” She watched him carefully.

  He lowered the teacup and shook his head in an attempt to stop her, even as the words tumbled from her lips. “Lady Judith Eaton.”

  The name alone jabbed deep into his chest, into a scar he’d thought long since healed over. Judith Eaton, the eldest daughter of Lord Chatsmore. The woman who had announced her betrothal to his cousin and who had broken MacKenzie’s heart.

  “I’ll no’ do it.” MacKenzie shook his head more emphatically.

  Gemma cast him a sympathetic look. “Her father anticipates you will be seeking her hand soon, to take the place of your cousin. Especially after a seven-year engagement. To avoid offending their family, I would recommend finding another betrothed. And with considerable haste.”

  Lady Penelope Keats, eldest daughter of the Earl of Bursbur
y, had always done everything asked of her, everything expected of her, with one glaring exception. She had not wed.

  The subject was a sore one, which was pressed and prodded at often by nearly every person in Penelope’s life. Not that she cared a whit about anyone’s judgment. How could she, when lives were at stake?

  Or at least their feet, in this particular case.

  She gingerly held the man’s foot as she examined the area to the left of his largest toe. The skin there was shiny and pink with inflammation.

  “It does appear to be gout,” Penelope said.

  The man shifted uncomfortably in the chair he sat upon, setting the wooden legs creaking in protest beneath his corpulent form. “Is there a man about?”

  Irritation prickled up Penelope’s spine. After three years of offering her voluntary aid to the staff of St. Thomas’s Hospital, it ought not to bother her anymore. And yet it did. Very much so.

  She swallowed her ire and continued, “I assure you, I’m quite skilled in the area of—”

  “I’ve been here before and the men have me patched up within a week.”

  Penelope offered a patient smile. “Your affliction in its very nature will clear within seven days’ time, but it will come back if you do not address—”

  “If I wanted a good nagging from a woman, I’d be home with my wife.” The man wheezed a laugh. “Be a good girl and fetch me a proper surgeon.”

  Penelope stood stiffly and swept from the room. No doubt she would think of just the right retort later that night while she was drifting off to sleep. Certainly, nothing came to her affronted tongue at the moment.