In Bed with the Earl
Page 1
Praise for In Bed with the Earl
“Exceptional . . . This series launch is an intoxicating romp sure to delight fans of historical romance.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Sizzling, witty, passionate . . . perfect!”
—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author
Praise for Christi Caldwell
“Christi Caldwell writes a gorgeous book!”
—Sarah MacLean, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“In addition to a strong plot, this story boasts actualized characters whose personal demons are clear and credible. The chemistry between the protagonists is seductive and palpable, with their family history of hatred played against their personal similarities and growing attraction to create an atmospheric and captivating romance.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Hellion
“Christi Caldwell is a master of words and The Hellion is so descriptive and vibrant that she redefines high definition. Readers will be left panting, craving, and rooting for their favorite characters as unexpected lovers find their happy ending.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Hellion
“Christi Caldwell’s The Vixen shows readers a darker, grittier version of Regency London than most romance novels . . . Caldwell’s more realistic version of London is a particularly gripping backdrop for this enemies-to-lovers romance, and it’s heartening to read a story where love triumphs even in the darkest places.”
—NPR on The Vixen
OTHER TITLES BY CHRISTI CALDWELL
Heart of a Duke
In Need of a Duke (A Prequel Novella)
For Love of the Duke
More Than a Duke
The Love of a Rogue
Loved by a Duke
To Love a Lord
The Heart of a Scoundrel
To Wed His Christmas Lady
To Trust a Rogue
The Lure of a Rake
To Woo a Widow
To Redeem a Rake
One Winter with a Baron
To Enchant a Wicked Duke
Beguiled by a Baron
To Tempt a Scoundrel
The Heart of a Scandal
In Need of a Knight (A Prequel Novella)
Schooling the Duke
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
A Matchmaker for a Marquess
His Duchess for a Day
Five Days With a Duke
Lords of Honor
Seduced by a Lady’s Heart
Captivated by a Lady’s Charm
Rescued by a Lady’s Love
Tempted by a Lady’s Smile
Courting Poppy Tidemore
Scandalous Seasons
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love
A Marquess for Christmas
Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love
Sinful Brides
The Rogue’s Wager
The Scoundrel’s Honor
The Lady’s Guard
The Heiress’s Deception
The Wicked Wallflowers
The Hellion
The Vixen
The Governess
The Bluestocking
The Spitfire
The Theodosia Sword
Only For His Lady
Only For Her Honor
Only For Their Love
Danby
A Season of Hope
Winning a Lady’s Heart
The Brethren
The Spy Who Seduced Her
The Lady Who Loved Him
The Rogue Who Rescued Her
The Minx Who Met Her Match
Brethren of the Lords
My Lady of Deception
Her Duke of Secrets
A Regency Duet
Rogues Rush In
Nonfiction Works
Uninterrupted Joy: A Memoir
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Christi Caldwell Incorporated
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542042574
ISBN-10: 1542042577
Cover design by Juliana Kolesova
Around the time I was to begin work on my first Lost Lords of London book, I found myself a victim of plagiarism. From the moment I discovered my words had been stolen, I was gutted. I was outraged. I was filled with so many different emotions, all of them consuming and powerful. During that time, I turned to the incomparable Nora Roberts, who encouraged me to put all that emotion onto my pages. Those pages came to be Verity and Malcom’s story. Ms. Roberts, I am so very grateful to you for guiding me back into my books. In Bed with the Earl is for you.
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Some twenty years earlier
London, England
“Keep up, ya little shite, or ya’re going back in the bag.”
Noooo. Not the bag.
Percival couldn’t go in there again. He couldn’t breathe in there. And it was so dark. So very dark. And he hated the dark.
That alone was enough to jar Percival Northrop into quickening his pace.
Or he tried to. He really did.
But he was just so tired, and every part of his body ached.
“Oi said faster.” A rough fist caught him hard between his shoulder blades, and he stumbled, pitched forward, and would have landed flat on his face.
The only thing to prevent it was when the tall, toothless man who’d been herding him along caught Percival by his hair. “Stay on yar feet,” he growled, yanking those strands so hard he whipped Percival’s head back.
His head hurt.
And not even like the sickness that had made him and his parents and all their household ill.
The stranger released him, and Percy bit his lip to keep it from trembling.
The man scoffed. “Ya’re a slow shite, aren’t ya?”
Tears filled Percy’s eyes. But he didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want them to see him do it. Even though his papa and mama had always said there was no shame in weakness, the men who’d snatched him didn’t seem to be of the same opinion. Neither the man who was hurting him nor the other ugly man, hairy like the bear his papa had shown him in an illustrated book,
didn’t like tears at all. It made them angry and impatient.
Unlike Percival’s mama and papa.
Mama . . . Papa . . .
And this time, the tears fell freely. They coursed down Percy’s cheeks until they were warm and itched his face.
He missed his mama and papa. He missed them so much. He didn’t care what the mean men who’d taken him from that horrible place said about his crying.
Trembling, he stumbled, trying to keep up. Not because he wanted to go with them. He didn’t. He was trying to move as quickly as he could because when he slowed, they prodded him in the back, forcing him forward.
Only it was so hard to keep walking.
He still hurt from the fire in his chest, as his mama had called it. It burnt inside even now, and Percy hadn’t been out of his bed—any bed—since his sickness.
Until these men had come to his bed. Stood over it. Then, one of the men had given the mean nurse some coins, and the other stranger had tossed Percy into a sack and over his shoulder. Percy had been struggling to breathe since.
Now, Percy’s heartbeat came loud in his ears. Like the times he’d race his papa so fast and so hard that it had climbed into his ears and pounded hard there. So loud he could barely hear his and Papa’s laughter.
It was too much. He couldn’t do it.
Percy fell down.
He yelped, and put his hands out, but they scraped the rough stones, ripping up his skin.
“Oi said not a word, ya shite.”
The man hit Percy on the back of his head so hard it slammed him forward into the stone. He couldn’t even cry out. Blood filled his mouth. There was a rock on his tongue. Only it wasn’t a rock . . .
He spit a tooth out.
They broke my tooth. “You broke my tooth,” he whispered.
And then he cried.
Because he’d never lost one before. His tutor had said they’d one day fall out, and Percy hadn’t slept for nights and nights because he’d been so very afraid of when that day would come: his teeth falling out of his mouth. But now, these men had done it. These mean, ugly, angry strangers. Percy cried all the harder and curled his hand around his tooth.
“Let’s just cut ’im,” the bearish man whispered. “Oi told ya he was too weak. We’ll find another one.”
“We already paid the coin for this one,” the other stranger spat. And then he turned to Percy. “Forget yar damned tooth. Or Oi’ll break yar bloody head,” he growled as he yanked Percy up on his feet. “Get movin’.”
And Percy knew he was supposed to be afraid. He knew they were going to hurt him and then kill him. But he didn’t want to die. Even though when they killed him, he’d get to go see Mama and Papa. But he was an earl’s son and had responsibilities that now fell to him.
Papa was now in heaven, and Percy was all that remained of the Northrop line.
“Let me go,” Percy whispered. And when the ugly stranger tightened his hold, Percy used all the energy he had to fight. “I said let me go.”
Except they weren’t impressed. They merely laughed.
Anger shot through Percy. “Stop laughing at me,” he yelled, and they only roared all the more. “Do you know who I am?”
At last they stopped laughing, and then Percy wished they hadn’t, because they’d gone all quiet. And the quiet was scarier than when they’d yelled. “Oh, yeah, Oi know.”
He did? Percy’s heart jumped. They knew him. Which meant they’d free him. Because they couldn’t hurt an earl’s son. No one did.
“Ya’re the fuckin’ king of England.”
Both men exchanged a look, and then—
“Bwahahaha!” The bear of a man bent over and clutched his side.
They were . . . laughing at him. None had ever dared laugh at Percy’s father. But these men, these ugly, stupid, dirty strangers, would make fun of Percy . . .
All the rage and pain and heartache he’d felt snapped him. “I said stop laughing at me,” he cried, and with all the energy he could manage, he rushed at the pair of brutes.
One of the men easily caught Percy by the thin shirt he’d been given, lifting him by its front and raising him so that they were at eye level. He stared at Percy for a long time. Close as they were, the smell of the other man burnt Percy’s nose and stung his eyes—putrid, like the sick that he’d thrown up.
“Put me down. I demand it.” Percy had never heard his papa be mean to anyone, but he had heard him use big words and make demands, and people always listened.
“Ya hear that, Sparky? The bloody king demands it.”
Sparky . . . What a silly name for a man who looked like a bear.
Sparky’s buglike eyes went wide. “Oi ’eard ’im, Penge.”
And then the pair of strangers burst out laughing.
Percy cried out as Penge set him down so hard his knees buckled and he hit the ground again.
The tooth slipped free of his hand, and, his cheek pressed to the wet stones, Percy stretched his fingers, reaching for it.
“Boy’s mad,” the bear—Sparky—was saying. “Ain’t of any use to anyone. And certainly ain’t going to be of any use to ’im.”
Him? Who is “him”?
And Percy quite decided then that he didn’t want to be of use to anyone who knew these men.
“We already paid coin for the little shite. Another mad king we ’ave here in England. Let’s go, Yar Majesty. Ya’ve subjects to meet.”
And as the two men dragged him off, all his bravery faded. Tears fell once more, staining his cheeks. “I want to go home,” he begged. “Please.” Even if Mama and Papa weren’t there . . . he wanted to go where it was safe and warm, and where people were kind.
Penge cuffed him on the back of his head so hard that stars danced behind Percy’s eyes. “Didn’t ya know, King?”
“Kn-know what?” he whispered, his voice trembling from both pain and fear.
Sparky flashed a toothless grin, cold, empty, and missing all warmth. “This is yar home now, Yar Majesty. King of the sewers. Get used to it.”
Another surge of energy burst through Percy, and he didn’t care that he’d been sick. Or that his stomach turned like he was going to throw up. “This isn’t my home. Do you hear me? This will never be my home!” He kicked and twisted and fought the mean men. “Someone will save me.” Only . . . Percy sobbed. Who would save him? There was no Mama or Papa anymore.
Penge slapped him across the face, rattling his teeth. “Get the bag,” he ordered Sparky.
And this time, as the scratchy fabric was brought over his head and Percy was shoved inside and flung over one of the strangers’ shoulders, he closed his eyes, grateful when the darkness crept in.
“No one is comin’ for ya. Ya ’ear me? Ain’t no one lookin’ for an orphan.”
That cruel threat echoed, coming as if from a distance, far, far away.
Someone was coming. They had to be . . .
He tried to speak the words aloud but couldn’t make his mouth move. Or make a sound.
Someone was . . .
Percy closed his eyes and remembered no more.
Chapter 1
THE LONDONER
MYSTERY!
All of London is in search of the gentleman who’s been robbed of his title by treacherous relatives. The new Earl of Maxwell remains a mystery to all . . . There is only one certainty: the Lost Lord has no wish to be found!
V. Lovelace
The Seven Dials, London, England
Shite.
Having dwelled in the sewers longer than he’d moved amongst men on the equally fetid streets of St. Giles, Malcom North held slogging through that muck as the most familiar memory of his existence. It was also the oldest.
Malcom picked his way through the dank grime that eventually tunneled out and emptied into the Thames.
He timed each rise and fall of his foot to the flow of water. He used the sounds of London’s true underbelly to mask his steps. Using the seven-foot pole that he’d carried for almost f
ifteen years now, he navigated the underground system.
He stilled, the water sloshing around his ankles, as the distant whine of an approaching herd echoed around the tunnel. Shoving the pole into the clever loop in his shirt, Malcom caught a metal chain in both hands. He climbed his feet up the walls, and hefted himself higher. Then, grabbing for the metal hooks left by the scaffolding that had built this underground world, he held himself aloft as the army of rats splashed ahead, racing through the filth and waste. The creatures squealed and chirped as they ran, climbing over one another in search of a poor blighter to feast upon.
Malcom’s arms strained from the exertion, but he channeled the stinging discomfort. Over the years, he’d learned one discomfort transmuted into another. A man wasn’t capable of feeling two hurts at once, and as long as he mastered one, he could defeat anything. His biceps and shoulders strained; sweat dripped from his brow.
He grimaced through the pain and remained hanging there until the last of the rodent pack, a lone white creature, went scurrying past.
Malcom lowered himself. Waiting. Waiting. The rapid splash of water breaking grew more distant, and he let himself fall. His previously strained muscles exalted from that release, the prickling that shot through his limbs a peculiar blend of pleasure and pain.
As his feet hit the stone floor, the water splashed noisily, splattering his trousers with the residual waste. He’d long ago ceased to smell the stench of this place, the tepid air more rotted than the coal-infused scents which those who dwelled in East London were forced to breathe daily.
As a boy, this had represented a choice . . . a luxury Malcom and all those born of his rank were without. Which sewer would he search? How would he find the means to survive? He’d not relied on the support of any gang leader. Every decision had been made by Malcom without any influence from the derelicts above. The life of a tosher represented all he knew.
And all he wished to know.
Gathering up his pole, Malcom resumed his march through the tunnel, scanning the brick walls as he cut a path through the water. Walls which had been a home, a place to hide from bastards bent on buggering a terrified street lad alone in the world. A haven from the constables who’d rid Polite Society of the guttersnipes sullying the air with their mere presence. And a place to hide from the gang leaders who’d built their empires on the backs of boys and girls.