In Bed with the Earl

by Caldwell, Christi

  Aye, there was truth there. And yet it was vastly more complicated than Bertha’s blunt assessment. For Malcom had helped her. Saved her, even. The moment danger had crept up, he’d swept her into his arms and then brought her into his home.

  A little tug at her sleeve startled Verity from her reverie. She found her sister staring at her with wide, worried eyes. “What now?”

  Verity mustered a smile for Livvie’s benefit. “Why, I offer Mr. Lowery the story I have, silly.”

  And then she prayed that the information she gave him was enough to spare her work and assuage society’s fascination with the man known as the Lost Heir.

  Chapter 12

  THE LONDONER

  SAVED!

  RESCUED BY A HERO IN THE SEWERS TUNNELS OF THE SEVEN DIALS!

  The world has long wondered about the Earl of Maxwell. At last, he has been found. By me . . . I am a woman who was rescued by him. I learned firsthand that despite what he’s endured in his time outside of the peerage, Lord Maxwell is first and foremost . . . a gentleman.

  V. Lovelace

  A fortnight later

  Verity had managed that which no one else in London, of any station, had accomplished—she’d not only located the Earl of Maxwell but also brought forth the story that the world craved.

  The story that had all London abuzz, talking about it.

  The one people had pored over as they read their papers on the streets of the city, devouring each word.

  She’d given them the tale of the Lost Earl. She’d done it, when no one else had managed anything more than his birth name. She’d uncovered his whereabouts, a general description of the man himself . . . and a glimmer of how he’d spent his years exiled from the nobility.

  And never had she felt more horrible for it. Betraying the stranger who’d saved her.

  Perhaps that was why she was being so richly punished, just then.

  Mayhap she’d not heard her employer correctly. That was all that made sense. The only way to explain . . .

  “I am sorry, Mr. Lowery,” she began slowly. “I’m afraid I did not hear you correctly.”

  “You heard me,” he said flatly. Holding a quizzing glass to his eye, he scanned the inked pages in Fairpoint’s sloppy hand. “I was clear in what was expected of you. You had an assignment, and you failed, Miss Lovelace.” He briefly deigned to look at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to see to these edits so they might go to the presses.”

  If you’ll excuse me. It wasn’t a question but a command, as men were wont to do.

  And it also served to confirm that there was no misunderstanding. Even so, it bore repeating. “You are sacking me?”

  There, she’d said it. She’d said it, and hadn’t shattered under the weight of her dread.

  “If you prefer to think of it as parting ways, that is fine, Miss Lovelace,” he said impatiently as he set aside one page for another. “Either way, you’re done here.”

  Verity stared blankly down at the top of his head bent over those papers. “You cannot do this . . .” She could not squeeze out another word behind those. All this had become too real, in ways that didn’t allow for coherent thought or well-articulated arguments.

  “I can.” He flipped to another page. “And I did.”

  This could not be it. Verity slid onto the edge of the lone seat opposite Lowery.

  He briefly lifted his gaze, and catching sight of her sitting, he frowned. “I don’t have time, Miss—”

  “You don’t have time?” she asked, and the frenzied quality to that query silenced the remainder of that coldhearted pronouncement. “You don’t have time?” For the love of God, she’d climbed into the sewers and nearly been mauled by rats for her efforts. “I have given almost twenty years of my life to The Londoner, Mr. Lowery.” All while he’d been traveling the damned Continent, living high off the earnings of his family’s business, taking no role in the overall upkeep of the operations, Verity had been here and devoted. Tempering her voice, she attempted reasoning with him. “I’ve worked harder than every man who has ever sat at any desk. I’ve stayed longer, well past when they go home for the day. All the while earning less.” For no other reason than because of her gender, and with all her dedication to her role, she’d simply be turned out?

  Color splotched his cheeks. “Please, Miss Lovelace.” He tugged at his collar. “It’s crass for a young woman to speak about money.”

  “But it’s not too crass for you to pocket the small fortune you made off my story,” she shot back, and then thumped a fist to her breast. “My story. I brought you the tale of Lord Maxwell,” she said, hating the shrill quality to her tone. Lowery expected her to be emotional. Verity exhaled slowly through tight lips. “I brought you exactly what you sought,” she said again, this time more measured in that deliverance.

  “You brought me a story,” he clarified, at last setting down those damned pages. “A story. Not what I requested, but rather an exaggerated romantic tale.”

  “It was not . . . romantic,” she sputtered; her indignation flared, far more comfortable than the earlier panic lashing at her. He’d paint her column as something romantic for no other reason than that she was a woman. There’d been no mention of the toe-tingling kiss that still haunted her memories and robbed her of sleep. More than half-fearing Lowery could see those scandalous thoughts parading through her mind, she brought her shoulders back. “It was—”

  “A romantic story about the earl,” he said flatly. “And it was fine for the purpose it served. It briefly assuaged the desire for any information, but this . . .” He fished around his cluttered desk, and then lifted the first-ever front-page story she’d managed. “This was never the story I or the world sought, and you know it. You merely gave them something they didn’t know they wanted.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point of writing?” she cried.

  “No.” Lowery slapped the copy of The Londoner down. “The purpose is to do your job.”

  And he was a damned fool.

  Verity stormed to her feet. “You bastard,” she hissed, curling her fingers into the edge of his oak desk to keep grounded. “I’ve given everything to my work here. And do you know something, Lowery? I am going to destroy you. I’m going to one day have my own damned paper, and I’m going to write the stories that the world doesn’t know they want or need, and watch gleefully while your business is shuttered for your absolute inability to locate a damned good story if it were to slap you in your smug face.”

  Silence met her tirade, punctuated by the rapid breaths Verity sucked in.

  He tightened his mouth. “Get out, Miss Lovelace.”

  “Get out,” she breathed.

  That was what awaited a woman after a lifetime of loyal service.

  “To hell with you,” she clipped out. To hell with all men.

  Lifting her skirts, Verity spun and marched from the room. Taking immense satisfaction as she slammed the door hard in her wake and all the male employees around the office jumped and fell quiet.

  Except Fairpoint.

  Arms tucked behind his head, reclined in his seat as he was, his legs stretched out onto the corner of his desk, and a smug, self-satisfied grin on his thin lips.

  She curled her hands tight to keep from smacking him in his smug smile.

  Except, by the horrified expressions painted on the seven occupants of The Londoner’s offices, this was the response that they expected of her.

  How was she still standing? How, when with a handful of casually tossed words, he’d thrown her entire future—her sister’s entire future—into peril? Just like Lowery, just like any and every man, they all expected Verity’s outburst because that was how the world saw women. Incapable of controlling their feelings, even as men moved through life, the hotheads they were, easy to anger, and even easier to take up a spot across from another on a dueling field, all in the name of honor.

  Verity gave a toss of her head, and with very deliberate steps, she made her way over to
Fairpoint. There was a wave of satisfaction as his previously pompous smile fell, and he hastily dropped his legs to the floor.

  Good, she’d unsettled him. It was a small consolation on this bloody miserable day.

  When she reached his desk, Verity stopped.

  Fairpoint eyed her warily.

  “You’ve had it in for my post since the moment you came here three years ago. You attempted to displace me when Mr. Lowery’s father served as editor, and you’ve made it your mission since he ceded his responsibilities over to his son.”

  “Yes.” He fiddled with an immaculate cravat.

  “Why?” she demanded. Why should his life’s goal have been to see her sacked?

  He eyed her like she’d begun speaking gibberish. “Because there’s no place for your sort here, Miss Lovelace. This isn’t women’s work,” he said bluntly. “No matter how much you wish it to be.”

  Women’s work? What was truly women’s work? Marriage to a man? Mistress to a gentleman? Whore to a sailor? Servant in a fine lord’s house? The options were few, and each no less vile than the other.

  Pushing back the black rage creeping over her eyes, she took a step toward him.

  Fairpoint hunched over.

  The damned hypocrite. He’d mock a woman, and yet, feared one still. But then, perhaps that was what it was ultimately all about: men of every station truly feared women and what they might do to their ordered world. “Go to hell, Fairpoint.”

  And before she lost control as they all anticipated, Verity stormed out of The Londoner’s office . . . and the only employment she’d known almost all her life.

  The moment she closed the door behind her, she stood there on the stoop.

  All around, East London carried on as East London did: every side of the pavement overflowed with passersby and vendors hawking their wares. Their shouts and enticements deafening, a dissonance that wreaked havoc on her already jumbled mind.

  The sting of London’s stink slapped at her face; the fragrant odors of horse urine and dust burnt her nose.

  Street sweepers hurried to clear manure from the uneven cobblestones, and she walked along those just-cleaned paths, her legs moving through the rote motions of a walk she’d made so many times before.

  And as she reached the front of the bakery, only one thought sharpened into clarity: I’ve no work.

  Gone. The security she needed to care for her family. The funds that paid for the rent of their modest apartments above the bakery.

  Oh, God.

  Her legs went weak under her, and she shot a hand out, catching the rail to keep herself upright. Unable to muster the strength to move, she sank onto the bottom stoop. Had she failed, had she not done her assignment to the utmost, there would have been frustration at being dismissed. But to have written the piece requested of her and garnered the sales she had for The Londoner, only to find herself with this ignoble fate?

  The wind rustled her skirts, a soft breeze that wafted the rotted scents of St. Giles and could never be a true balm.

  And yet, it was warm. But spring and summer faded, and would give way to autumn and winter . . . and as rotted as London was in the summer months, there wasn’t the gripping cold.

  Just as there was no cloak. Her cloak had been cut from her, and she’d left it behind at Malcom’s. And it wouldn’t be replaced because there’d be no funds for garments for herself—or her sister or Bertha. A sob caught in her throat, and she buried her head in her hands in a bid to hide that weakness from the folks about her.

  Only they didn’t care.

  She straightened, and sure enough, the world continued to spin with fancily dressed strangers walking briskly, hurrying about whatever business brought them to these parts of London so they could ultimately escape and make for Mayfair or Grosvenor Square as they were wont to do. Everyone went about their way, and their day, without worry for the plight of others.

  They were the fortunate, free of those worries.

  Men and women like her late father’s legitimate family.

  And Lord Maxwell.

  Her chest heaved, and little flecks danced behind her eyes from the sudden, sharp intakes of her breathing.

  Lord Maxwell, who had a future and a fortune but was content to live a life of pretend in the most lethal corner of England. Concealing his secrets at the cost of her and Livvie’s security.

  But he’s also the man who saved you . . . when he could have easily left you for dead in those tunnels. He’d cared for her injury and seen her bathed and clothed, and yes, he’d sent her running in terror, but he’d not proven himself so wholly without compassion.

  Verity bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself to enter and face Livvie and Bertha.

  At her arrival the women, darning a pair of stockings each, looked over.

  Verity attempted to force a smile . . . that would not come. Instead, she pushed the door softly closed behind her.

  “What is it?” Livvie whispered.

  Only, Verity saw in her sister’s eyes that she already knew. Despite the ways in which she’d maintained her innocence, Livvie wasn’t wholly immune to the precariousness that was life for those outside the comfortable ranks their father had been born to.

  “He sacked me,” she said quietly, and hung her satchel from the same hook it had resided on these past years.

  There was silence, and then—

  “Miserable bastard,” Bertha hissed.

  Another time Verity would have chided her for speaking so crassly. In this moment, she couldn’t muster sufficient concern for proper talk.

  “He cannot do that,” Livvie cried. “Surely he cannot do that?” She turned to Bertha when Verity failed to provide the reassurance that her sister desperately craved.

  “He can do anything. Men can do anything they want,” Bertha spat.

  And through the cacophony of that back-and-forth, Verity remained motionless. Her gaze went to the stack of luggage used as makeshift furniture about their equally makeshift parlor. Soon, they’d have to put that small collection of mismatched articles—two embroidered valises, the once vibrant flowers long since faded by time—to use. To use once more, that was. For the first time in eighteen years. The lone trunk with its rusted latches.

  Only . . . Verity tipped her head, eyeing the luggage. What did one do with trunks and valises when there was no place for them? An image danced behind her eyes: of her and Livvie and Bertha balancing the pieces between them as they wandered the streets, homeless. It conjured thoughts of the wandering Roma her romantic mother had once told her of. Except East London could hardly ever be considered the lush lands the Rom traversed. A nervous little giggle bubbled in her throat.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the concerned look that passed between Livvie and Bertha. And Verity, who’d served in the role of older sister, de facto mother, and caregiver for their trio, couldn’t bring herself to find a suitable word of assurance.

  Because she had none.

  There was nothing.

  And what was worse . . . there was nowhere. Nowhere for them.

  A humming filled Verity’s ears. The rush of blood pumping from the panic threatening to pull her under.

  Her life had been upended before. After her mother’s passing, Verity had been forced to leave behind her small cottage. She’d moved to London and settled into a new home—those sorry apartments.

  There’d always been a roof. There’d always been walls. There’d been a loss of the comforts once enjoyed, but still, security.

  This? This was—

  There was a light tug on her sleeve, and Verity jumped.

  Livvie drew her hand away. “Perhaps you might . . . speak to the Lost Earl again?” her eternal optimist of a sister ventured.

  “The Lost Earl,” she echoed dumbly.

  I’m not the gentleman you take me for . . .

  The ragged retort still echoed in her mind, his voice husked by desire, his callused hands upon her, searching her body in a touch that h
ad bordered tender and rough. And . . . no. There was no gentleness in him. He’d been clear with his words and every action that he’d cede nothing over to her. “No,” Verity said, making herself look back at Livvie and Bertha. “I’m not speaking to him.” Never again.

  “But he might be able to help?” Livvie pushed with a persistence that could come only from innocence. “After all, he saved you. Or you can speak to Mr. Lowery—”

  “Mr. Lowery’s not going to change his mind,” she cried, frustration bringing her words rolling forth. “He’s not some kindhearted gentleman.” And neither was Malcom. She opened her mouth to say as much, but the words would not come. For Malcom wished to keep his secrets, and he should be entitled to that privacy.

  A rebellious glimmer sparked to life in her sister’s eyes. “Well, if Mr. Lowery won’t, I’m certain the earl and—”

  “And you blindly trust that someone is good because they are born to the nobility?” She gripped her sister by the shoulders. “For the love of God, Livvie, our father was an earl.” That reminder whitewashed her sister’s cheeks, and still, Verity couldn’t bring herself to stop. “Our father was an earl, and what did he do? He married another woman because she was a lady, while all the while—”

  “Stop,” Livvie whispered.

  “Making our mother his mistress. And have you ever known any comfort in life because of him?” She didn’t allow for an answer. “I’ll tell you, we did not.” They’d not because the extent of the security he’d offered had come in the form of securing work for the twelve-year-old girl Verity had been. Releasing Livvie, Verity slammed a hand against her chest. “I’m the one who has kept you safe and secure and provided for. Me. Me. Not him. Not some damned gentleman.” Not their father. Not Malcom, the Earl of Maxwell. “Not some bloody earl.” Her shrill cry echoed in the rooms empty of furnishings.

  No one spoke.

  No one so much as moved.

  In the end, it was not Verity who slid into the role of comforter, but rather the unlikeliest of their trio. “Here, now,” Bertha murmured, showing traces of the once warm nursemaid she’d been. She rested a hand on Livvie’s arm.