An Unexpected Earl

by Anna Harrington

  Frederick was home early. And most certainly because he’d seen her at the masquerade.

  Three

  “Amelia, where are you?”

  As her brother called out for her again, Amelia snatched up the dress and shoved it back into the knitting bag. She yanked the bag closed and buckled the straps, swallowing down her panic.

  “I need to talk to you—now!”

  With shaking hands, she shoved the bag at her maid, who had gone pale. “Go upstairs to your room. He probably just wants to make certain I arrived home all right.” But even she didn’t believe that. “Everything will be fine.”

  Maggie’s jerking nod did little to bolster her courage.

  Amelia hurried downstairs before her brother could send up another shout that would wake both the dead and the neighbors on both sides. She paused outside the study to take a deep breath, then plastered on a smile and stepped into the room. “Frederick, you’re home early.”

  “And according to Drummond,” he mused as he poured cognac into a crystal tumbler from the drink tray, although he’d clearly had more than his fair share of liquor already, “you were out late.”

  “Well, you know how the London Ladies are.” She clasped her hands behind her back, more to hide their shaking than in contriteness. “We often become carried away when we have our discussions, and I lost track of time.”

  Did he know she was lying? She couldn’t tell from the way he smiled and returned the stopper to the decanter with a soft clink. His hand shook. Something was bothering him. Please, God, don’t let him have seen me!

  He asked over his shoulder, “Voltaire again?”

  She forced a long-suffering sigh to hide her nervousness. “Voltaire always.”

  He raised the glass to his mouth to take a healthy swallow. “Be careful when you’re out.” His voice was scratchy, the sound a combination of too much drink and snuff. “You know I worry about you.”

  Yes. Since Papa died, he’d kept a close eye on her. The only time he’d slipped was when she’d eloped with Aaron without a marriage contract in place, and they were both still paying for that mistake.

  “Which is why I always take Maggie with me,” she assured him. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen among bluestockings—someone mistranslates the Latin and insists that Caesar said, ‘I came, I saw, I ate crumpets’?”

  He laughed at her quip, far too happily for a man who was being blackmailed and certainly only because he was foxed, and growing more so with every sip he took. Even now he swayed unsteadily on his feet as he crossed to his desk. As he brushed by, she could smell the odor of expensive brandy and cheap perfume that lingered around him like a cloud.

  “After tonight, we might not have to worry so much anymore,” he said sotto voce so that he wouldn’t be overheard. Apparently, Freddie didn’t trust his own servants any more than she did. “I succeeded at my purpose for the evening.”

  She fought to keep her shoulders from sagging in relief. He hadn’t seen her after all. Thank God. “And what purpose was that?”

  He grinned stupidly, placed his hands flat on the desktop, and leaned toward her. “The turnpike trust!”

  She froze, except for a cold dread that coiled its way up from the backs of her knees like a slithering snake. “We’ve discussed this before,” she replied calmly, forcing herself to remain stoic. “I told you that I am not interested in allowing a turnpike to be built on my property.”

  His smile faded. “We don’t have a choice this time.” He reached for his drink. But his hand shook uncontrollably, forcing him to set down the glass before he spilled it. “I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a predicament.”

  “Oh?” She held her breath. He meant the blackmail.

  Not looking at her, he began to pace behind the desk in short, jerking turns that reminded her of the caged animals at the Tower Menagerie. He scrubbed his hand over his face and gave a strangled laugh. “Seems there’s someone who has a grudge against me.”

  That was an interesting definition of blackmail. But she knew not to interrupt. Let him divulge what he would, let him lay out just enough rope to hang himself…and then she would demand answers. And the truth.

  “You know all those government positions that have been coming open lately? Well, the man’s demanding that I use my influence to put the men he wants into them.” He gestured wildly in the general direction of Westminster. “Of course, I had to agree or—or I would lose power in the House.”

  “Extortion?” she asked ingenuously, dangling the end of the rope…

  He gave a quick, curt nod. “Yes, that’s—”

  “Or blackmail?”

  He jerked up straight, halting in his steps. When his bloodshot eyes darted to hers, she knew—with that look, he’d formed the end of the rope into a noose himself.

  Deflecting her concern, he gave a dismissive shrug. “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes.” A huge one. Extortion implied quid pro quo…yours for mine. A deal that could be broken if both parties were willing to live with the consequences. But blackmail was one-sided, happening after the fact, when crimes had already been committed… Oh, God, what had he done?

  “All right, then I’m being blackmailed.” He announced that by lifting his glass in a mocking toast. “Cheers!”

  She grimaced. None of this was amusing. “Since when?” The crumpled note clearly wasn’t the first threat. No, it had been issued simply as a reminder to keep following orders.

  “The start of the session.”

  Six months. Her stomach roiled at how long this had been hanging over their heads without her knowing. “Over what?”

  Taking his time to swallow down a mouthful of brandy, he shook his head, then wiped the back of his free hand across his mouth. “So far I’ve done what he’s asked,” he explained, evading her question. “I’ve placed all the men just as he’s wanted. I’ve managed to keep him happy enough not to enact his threats.”

  “Who?”

  Another shrug. “The entire Tory party, half the men in the Whigs, anyone who wants my seat for himself… Your guess is as good as mine.”

  He was right. Too many men disliked him to narrow the choice down to just one who might hate him enough to do this. “What exactly has this man threatened?”

  A guilty pause filled the silence. “To tell Sir Charles Varnham what I’ve done. He leads the Committee of Privileges and would love to make an example of someone like me.” He muttered bitterly, once more lifting his glass, “The son of a factory owner, the upstart in their ranks…”

  Her heart thumped painfully against her breastbone. “And what have you done, exactly?”

  He scowled and jabbed the glass at her to make his point. “Nothing that the rest of Parliament hasn’t, including Varnham. We all use our positions for our own gains.”

  She pressed quietly, “Illegal gains, Frederick?”

  “Yes! Yes, I did illegal things, all right?” The angry snarl reminded her of a wild animal who had been cornered. “But nothing that others haven’t, I promise you that.” He set the glass onto the desk so hard that cognac splashed over the rim. “But it’s enough, if the House rules of conduct are taken strictly—”

  “And English law,” she interjected beneath her breath.

  He shot her a quelling look. “Nothing the others haven’t done,” he repeated forcefully. “But enough to remove me from the House.” Then a long, ragged sigh tore from him, and he turned away from her to stare out the dark window. He said almost to himself, “And wouldn’t some of those pompous old bastards just love to get their hands on my seat? Minehead’s a jewel, the best of the pocket boroughs. Lots of men all over England are simply drooling to put their hands on it…”

  His voice faded off. But the drawn and haggard expression marring his face showed exactly how serious his situation was, how much was at stake
.

  “There’s no reason to think the blackmailer will expose you,” she reminded, attempting to calm him, “since you’ve done everything he’s asked.”

  “So far.”

  The two small words chilled her to her bones. “What do you mean?”

  He faced her. “I mean that he’s asking for three more appointments, but I’ve already used up every one at my disposal. The session’s ending in a few days, and there aren’t any other positions coming open that require Parliamentary approval.” His obvious desperation took her breath away. “Except for a turnpike trust. There’s still time to propose one and for Parliament to enact it.”

  “No,” she whispered, finding the resolve to speak out over the dread seeping through her. She was grateful to Freddie for all he’d done for her, wanted to help him however she could, but… “Not that.”

  He slammed his palm onto the desk. She jumped with a small gasp, her hand going to her throat, her fingers grazing her locket.

  “Damnation, Amelia! It’s the only way out of this mess, don’t you see that? To do what he’s asking, one last time—to save everything—” As if realizing he was showing a lack of control, he cut himself off, inhaled deeply, and then blew out a hard, cognac-scented breath. “A trust of this size needs five trustees to oversee it. The most important landowners take two, with three slots left for any named trustees we want. Three slots for those last three men I have to place. If I find positions for them, then the blackmail stops.”

  “Turnpike trustees?” she repeated incredulously. He was beyond drunk and into lunacy. “You said you were being forced to find government appointments.”

  “I am finding them! That’s what these are.” He raked his shaking hand through his hair in frustration. “Don’t you see? It’s filling the positions that matters, not the position itself. A trust will do that, and we’ll be free from this mess.”

  His mess. She ached for him, but the rest of her wanted to shake him hard for allowing this to happen.

  And now he wanted to free himself by taking all that was left of her inheritance. That small piece of land was the only part of her fortune that Aaron hadn’t absconded with the morning after their wedding. A turnpike would cut right through it, with the trust claiming the greater part of it under their rights of access. There would be no useful portion left for her to control.

  “Parliament and Prinny want turnpikes and improved roads across England because they understand the importance of development,” he explained, as if she were a child. But it was difficult to sound authoritative, she supposed, when slurring one’s words. “And our property is right in the middle of a grand route between Birmingham and the Severn. Don’t you see? Not only would the last men be placed and the threats against me stopped, but we’d also be set up financially. Turnpikes are gold mines! We’d be fools not to take advantage of that.”

  He’d be a fool, he meant. She doubted that he planned on sharing the profits, not that she wanted any. She’d much rather keep control of her land.

  “Parliament’s doubled the number of turnpike trusts just in this session alone,” he told her. “They’ll agree to mine.”

  “Trusts take control,” she reminded him. They’d fought this battle before. “They take it away from the private owners and keep it for themselves.”

  “Trusts collect the tolls and maintain the roads. They do all the work but ensure all the profits for landowners who are smart enough to capitalize on improving their property.” He snatched up the letters that Drummond had left on his desk on a silver salver, as if needing to keep his hands busy, and tossed an unwanted one away with a flick of his wrist. “But I don’t expect you to understand the complexities of money, given how easily you lost yours.”

  Expecting that jab, she’d steeled herself so she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing any visible reaction. But that didn’t stop the slice to her heart.

  “So you plan to put a road across Bradenhill.” She watched as he took another sip of brandy. Oh, what she wouldn’t have given for a strong drink herself right then! “And build posting inns, taverns, warehouses…” Brothels, gin palaces, gambling hells…

  Another flick of his wrist, another unwanted letter sent flying. “And so much more.” He smiled triumphantly. “It will be a fresh start.”

  No, a fresh hell. “Unfortunately, there seems to be a problem with your plans. Bradenhill belongs to me,” she said quietly, playing her trump card. The one that had always stopped him in the past from going beyond merely contemplating the idea. He couldn’t put through a turnpike without her permission.

  “But your charity doesn’t.”

  Her gaze flew up to his. She understood his words exactly as he meant them—a threat.

  “You only have that shop in the first place because of me, remember.”

  Panic gripped her until she couldn’t breathe. “The Bouquet Boutique supports itself. It pays its bills and—”

  “Only because I took out the lease for you, because I agreed to sign onto your bank accounts—accounts that I control, that I can close down.”

  Her blood turned cold. Because I am a woman…and banks wouldn’t let unmarried women open their own accounts or sign leases. They had to have the cosignature of a man. She’d had no choice three years ago but to ask for Frederick’s help to start the shop. She’d always believed he’d done it because he knew how important it was to her and how much she needed the purpose it gave her. At the very least, how much it kept her busy and out of his way.

  But he’d never before held it over her head like this.

  She whispered, unable to prevent the fear from creeping into her bones, “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “To save us? In an instant.” He slapped the letters down, his hands flat on the desk, and leaned toward her. “If I don’t put these last three men into some kind of appointments—any kind of appointments—my career is over. I’ll be publicly exposed, most likely arrested—I’ll be thrown into prison. Is that what you want?”

  “No! Of course I—”

  “If that happens, then your charity shop will close, and you’ll find yourself out on the street with all those war widows who work there.” His eyes flared as brightly as the coals in the fireplace behind him, reminding her of the devil himself. “So you need to make a choice, Amelia.” A devil who was attempting to take her soul. “Either support me in this trust, or lose everything, including your charity.” His red eyes fixed on hers, and what she glimpsed in their dark depths frightened her. “Which will it be?”

  Damn him for putting his mess upon her shoulders! Afraid her voice would break beneath the churning fear and anger inside her, she said quietly, “Forcing me to place Bradenhill into the trust won’t do you any good. You know that.” She folded her hands behind her so he wouldn’t see them shaking. And so she wouldn’t be tempted to scratch his eyes out. “You might have both our properties then, but that small stretch won’t make for a turnpike.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He straightened to his full height. “Joining your share of Father’s property to both mine and to the property abutting it puts us over halfway across the county. Parliament will see the wisdom of constructing a turnpike across the rest and gladly enact a trust.” He smiled and clawed at his cravat to pull loose the knot at his throat. “And tonight, I spoke to the neighboring landowner. He’s willing to listen to my plans. Seemed very interested, in fact.”

  She tensed with dread. That was why Freddie had been at the masquerade. Not because of the blackmail. Not because he’d caught wind of her plans to speak to Varnham.

  “You knew him once.” He sank into the chair behind his desk, most likely too far into his cups to remain on his feet. “A man I think you should get to know again, and well enough to convince him that a trust is a brilliant idea.”

  Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. Because she knew, even bef
ore he spoke the name—

  “Brandon Pearce.” He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Your old friend.”

  No. If Pearce agreed to the trust, then he was her new enemy.

  Four

  Pearce slammed the metal door closed behind him with a teeth-jarring clatter.

  The Armory needed a better—and quieter—way inside, but Marcus Braddock, former general with the Coldstream Guards and now Duke of Hampton, insisted that the two sets of metal doors remain in place. Because he wanted to pay homage to the building’s previous life as a true armory. Because the doors rattled loudly enough to wake the dead in St. Paul’s crypt, notifying everyone within that someone was entering.

  “Because he wants to drive me into Bedlam,” Pearce muttered and winced as the inner door clanged shut.

  He passed beneath the archway and the shield bearing the Armory’s motto… Ubi malum timet calcare. Where evil fears to tread. A reminder to all who entered this place of the purpose for which it existed and the new life’s purpose it gave to its men.

  But tonight, Pearce came here seeking solace of another kind.

  He rubbed at his nape. Amelia Howard. After all these years.

  He could hardly believe it. But the woman in red was her. He’d have bet his life on it. Those green eyes, that golden hair… He remembered her smile, too, even though a sadness lingered behind it that hadn’t been there before. Now he knew why she’d seemed so familiar, why the locket had jarred a memory. Because he’d given it to her. For God’s sake, she’d even kept the blue ribbon he’d used to tie up the box.

  But what the hell was she doing at one of Torrington’s masquerades? And why on earth would she need to speak to Sir Charles Varnham from behind a mask?

  None of it made sense. Including why she’d fled.

  True, they hadn’t exactly parted as friends. Gordon Howard had nearly killed him after finding him in his daughter’s bedroom and on the verge of compromising her. Pearce had been unable to fight back—oh, he could have dropped the old man with a single punch; God knew he’d won enough fights back then to pulp him with barely any effort. But that would have destroyed Amelia, and Pearce couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d brought her any kind of pain. Which was why he hadn’t attempted to contact her after he’d been tossed from the house, for fear that her bastard of a father would make good on his promises and force her into marriage with a man she didn’t love. Worse—a man who might treat her with the same contempt as her father.