In Bed with the Earl

by Caldwell, Christi

  Her lower lip atremble, Livvie ripped away and stalked off to the lone room that had served as the sisters’ shared bedchambers as long as they’d lived here. And then she closed the door behind her with a soft click more powerful than had she slammed the oak slab.

  Verity briefly closed her eyes. Good God, what had she become?

  Bertha frowned. “It’s not the gel’s fault.”

  “I know.”

  “And she certainly shouldn’t have you yelling at her for it. She’s scared, too.”

  “I know. I know.” Restless, Verity pressed her palms over her face, when Bertha caught her hands and brought them back to her sides.

  “It is all right to be scared yourself, but it’s not all right for you to be taking that out on Livvie.”

  The older woman was correct. Fear over their future or not, Verity had no place lashing out at her sister. When she’d been the same age that Livvie was now, Verity had been caring for her baby sister. From that moment on, Verity had committed herself to taking care of her sister, and ensuring she didn’t know the strife Verity herself had. It was no state she’d ever want her sister to find herself in. No position that any child had to be in: grown up too soon. Employed. Supporting one’s family. And yet, that was the way of the world. Nay, not the world. The peerage knew nothing of children becoming caregivers. “You’re right,” she said quietly, absently; she wandered through the barren room, over to the window that looked down on the streets below.

  Her sister truly believed Malcom North was the man to help them.

  It was utter foolishness, built off the hopes of a young girl and her naivete.

  Only . . .

  “What are you thinking, gel?” Bertha asked gruffly.

  Do not even think about it . . .

  It was a quest born of foolishness . . . fueled by desperation . . .

  “See after Livvie,” she said breathlessly. Racing over to the hook, she gathered her satchel once more. Perhaps if she explained her circumstances, and explained the importance of this story, he might relent, and she in turn might secure her post with Lowery—nay, better—some other respectable column.

  Bertha groaned. “Don’t ever tell me you’re going to see him.”

  Verity set her jaw. “That is precisely what I’m doing.”

  And before the older woman could try and talk her out of her decision, Verity hurried from their apartments and set out for the most ruthless end of St. Giles.

  Chapter 13

  THE LONDONER

  FORGIVEN!

  The Lost Earl has found himself again fortunate . . . this time by the magnanimity of Polite Society. The peerage has proven gracious in their willingness to overlook his mysterious—and certainly dark—past. They are eager to welcome him to Polite Society. If he wished it, that is . . .

  M. Fairpoint

  Malcom was being hunted.

  It wasn’t the first time in the course of his almost thirty years he’d found himself prey that a foe sought to capture.

  It was, however, the first time he’d faced this particular type of adversary.

  “As you can see, based on all the arguments I’ve enumerated here, my lord, I would make . . . we would make one another a most convenient match.”

  Silence met that pronouncement. A pronouncement delivered in clear, soft English tones befitting a perfect English lady. Which there could be no doubt the elegantly attired, golden-haired woman opposite him in fact was.

  That was, all except for the part of the lady asking a damned stranger to marry her.

  A fact that was clearly not lost on the pained-looking maid hovering close to the lady’s shoulder.

  “Ahem,” the young lady said. “If you would like me to continue with additional reasons you should consider an arrangement between us?”

  “Even with that whole impressive list, there’s more, sweetheart?” Giles drawled.

  The lady—Lady Denny . . . Lady Denton . . . or whatever the hell her name was—glared at Giles in the first real display of emotion she’d shown since her arrival. She immediately had her mask back in place. She turned to Malcom with a smile. “As I was saying, I can—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he quickly interrupted. He’d rather be the feast of hungry rats in the sewers of London than marry an English lady—this one, or any one.

  The young woman scrambled to the edge of her seat. “But you’ve not considered all—”

  Malcom leveled her with a look that immediately quelled the remainder of her protestations. Her cheeks went white, and she, not for the first time since her arrival, avoided his gaze. As every woman who’d walked through his doors had been wont to do.

  Nay, there’d been one who’d been fearless and unapologetically bold in their every dealing.

  Pushing back unwanted thoughts of Verity Lovelace, Malcom stood. “We’re done here,” he said coolly.

  The lady hesitated and then, with the regal bearing of a princess, shoved to her feet. “As you wish, my lord.” Gathering up her bonnet, she set it atop her head, unhurriedly tied it at her chin, and stalked off.

  Giles was across the room in three long strides, and had the door opened for the woman and her maid. “Your Highness,” he said dryly.

  The lady’s lips pursed like she’d sucked a lemon. With a grand swish of her skirts, she swept from the room, her maid following close at her heels.

  A moment later, Bram ducked his head in.

  “Oi’m sorry.” The old man twisted his hat in his hands. “’ad a hard time saying no to that one.”

  As had been the case with any number of the desperate lords and their blushing, pale daughters Bram had shown in. Malcom had been tolerant, but now his patience snapped. “Not. One. More. Visitor.”

  “She’ll be the last,” the tosher vowed before ducking from the room.

  As soon as he’d gone, Giles shoved the door shut behind him and took up his place at the window. “You must admit, she was a lovely one.”

  Giles merely sought to get a rise out of him. It had been the way of their relationship over the years. As such, with the latest fortune hunter now gone, and seated at his desk once more, compiling a list of his plans for the week, Malcom didn’t even deign to pick up his head. “If you’re interested in the lady, I suggest you summon her back and marry her yourself.”

  The other man drew the curtain back and glanced down. “Ah, yes,” he drawled. “But I’m not the earl, am I? As such, I trust she wouldn’t be interested in one of my kind.”

  One of his kind. It was a statement that set Malcom’s teeth on edge, that mistaken belief held by all that because of a sudden trick of fate Malcom should be elevated to a different level than the one he’d lived these past years.

  “Nor do I believe the lady’s father, whomever the gent might be, would take to me approaching the pretty miss, let alone speaking with her,” Giles was saying. “I know you’re out of sorts with that, but it could be a great deal worse.”

  He drew his brows together. “I hardly see how.”

  “The newspaper columnist. You know . . . the one responsible for your never-ending parade of ladies . . . might resume writing about you,” Giles said, turning his attention to the window once more.

  Malcom gave an angry flip of the page in his journal, and studied the map he’d constructed of the tunnels.

  She’d duped him, and Malcom had been paying the price ever since.

  His gaze landed on his rendering of the tunnels at Canal Place. With the pencil in his hand, he ran the tip of it over the spot he’d come upon her. And mayhap there’d been some otherworldly quality to her, after all. For how else to explain the lapse in his very judgment?

  I’m only willing to share that which you are willing to share with me . . .

  Share only what he was willing to allow, his arse.

  She’d printed a delusional, fantastical story about him that the world had lapped up. Polite and impolite Society alike. The unsavory sort he shared these streets with sa
livated at the chink in his armor he’d revealed after all these years. The fancy lords had frothed at the mouth for altogether different reasons—a heroic earl with gobs of wealth could be forgiven nearly anything, including the stench of the sewers on his person.

  Then there was the matter of her printing his bloody address. The minx had described the understated buildings he’d purchased, rented, and hidden within, outing his location to all.

  She’d dragged him out into the open, there for the world to see. And the world had seen—his foes as well as the members of the peerage who’d become his foes.

  The pencil snapped in his hand under the weight of the pressure. “Bloody fucking liar,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” he ground out. Malcom tossed aside the scraps and reached for another pencil. “Nothing at all.” He attempted—and failed—to redirect his attention where it should be: on mapping out the schedule of the tunnels to be scoured that night.

  For despite his earlier insistence, it was not nothing.

  Not truly.

  Malcom had allowed himself to be weak. He’d let his guard down, even as the incongruity of Verity Lovelace’s presence in the sewers—with all her fancy speech and damned innocence—had screamed “trap.” And he had stepped his foolish toes into it and had been paying the price for it ever since. Day after day, he was besieged by visitors: young women and their desperate, fortune-seeking fathers who’d believed the drivel Verity Lovelace had written upon the pages about him.

  Painting him as some kind of hero.

  A gentleman stalking the sewers and rescuing ladies.

  And in sum, lying to the masses to sell her story.

  And Malcom was the only one to pay the price.

  “Though, I will say of all the women paraded before you, the golden-haired beauty is by far my top contender for the role of countess.”

  “Fuck off.” Malcom stuck up his spare middle finger for emphasis, earning nothing more than a round of boisterous laughter for it. Abandoning his attempts at work, he tossed down his pencil and rubbed the stiff muscles along the back of his neck. “If you are unable to focus on our business together, you know I can simply replace you. There are a hundred other toshers who’d happily take your place.”

  “I do know as much.” Giles widened his grin. “I also know that you won’t. For all your annoyance and talk of sole focus upon the business, you rather like me.”

  “I don’t like anyone,” he muttered. “I tolerate you.” His associate, through the years, had preferred his secrets like most in the rookeries. He’d kept his life a mystery . . . a luxury Malcom had enjoyed until the bloody minx had stolen that coveted gift in these streets. A hot wave of fury whipped through him, as potent as the day Fowler had approached, gaze averted, head down, and dropped that damnable paper on his desk.

  The one that had unhinged Malcom’s world.

  Giles gave a tug at his lapels. “It certainly helps that the only one as capable in these sewers is me.”

  Malcom grunted. “As close to capable.”

  “I’ll take that as praise.”

  “It wasn’t praise, either. I’m merely stating fact,” he said bluntly. “We’re associates because of what you contribute.” In fact, he tolerated more than he should where Giles was concerned. Theirs, however, was a mutually beneficial relationship, and it would be foolish for anyone to mistake the work they did with Malcom as kindness in any form.

  “Ah, as we are speaking with blunt honesty, shall we discuss the tall, blonde-haired beaut—”

  “No,” he said before the other man could even finish. Malcom set to work, dividing his paper into columns and assigning those underlings who served their work for that week. At last Giles fell silent so Malcom could finish divvying up the operations for the upcoming week.

  The silence was short-lived.

  Giles plucked the curtain back, and peered out. “Another’s arrived.”

  Oh, bloody hell.

  “Not your usual taste, either. Dark. Small.”

  There’d been one young woman who’d been both dark and small, and who’d bewitched him. Malcom had learned his lesson, however. “She could be Athena, and I wouldn’t give a damn,” he muttered.

  “Well, she’s not. Athena, that is,” Giles clarified, as though it mattered which hopeful lady or woman in search of a fortune sauntered up to his doorway. “Short. Almost childlike in size but not . . .”

  Again, Verity Lovelace slipped into his thoughts. And he forcibly thrust back the unwanted memories of the shrew, just as he’d fought them each time: as she’d been that day, alternating between breathtaking courage and fear. With more displays of the former. And then there’d been her kiss.

  He swallowed a sound of disgust. Get ahold of yourself . . . “Childlike . . . you say?”

  “But clearly not a child.” Giles pressed his forehead against the glass and peered out. “She’s still rounded in the right places.”

  Lusting after the woman who’d ruined his existence was a new and entirely unfamiliar low. That reminder was sufficient enough to kill all thoughts of Verity Lovelace.

  “I will say this one is a bit severe. More so than any of the other wide-eyed innocents to come your way.”

  “I don’t need a damned cataloging,” he said tersely.

  “Come, you catalog everything. Even those things you’ve had taken from the Maxwell earl before you.” Giles prattled on anyway. “With the way the lady’s drawn her hair back, she must be giving herself a deuced headache.”

  Malcom continued writing. His pencil flew over the page.

  “That is . . . odd, though.”

  Unlike prior attempts at riling him, the genuine stupefaction stilled Malcom’s hand. “What is it?” After all, the only thing more perilous than incongruities were incongruities that went ignored.

  “There’s no doting papa. No protective maid. This one has come alone.”

  Alone . . .

  “Completely alone,” Giles clarified. “She must be a different sort of desperate than the others.”

  Plump and short? Severe hairstyle? A different sort of desperate . . . Nay. It was impossible. After all, there were any number of women to fit that physical description.

  “And she’s a determined look to her.”

  Malcom went absolutely still.

  And that was when he knew . . .

  Surging to his feet, he stormed over, pushing Giles out of the way so he could have unobstructed access to the window. He peered out the grimy pane, and damned the dirt.

  And sure enough, there, attired in an all-too-familiar black muslin dress, she stood.

  Nay, his mind merely played tricks on him. Malcom jammed the backs of his hands into his eyes and rubbed, and when he looked out once more, the sight remained. She remained.

  “Impossible,” he whispered.

  “I take it you know this one?”

  He ignored Giles’s question, his gaze riveted on the minx thumping a fist away at his front door.

  A door that Bram had been instructed not to open in greeting of anyone else that day . . . or any day until Malcom gave word—which he had no intention of giving.

  KnockKnockKnock.

  She paused midhammering, and let her arm fall. Verity backed away from the door.

  Malcom narrowed his eyes. She’d gathered, then, that he’d no intention of allowing her entry. Good, the miserable harp—

  Just then, she lifted a hand to her eyes, shielding them from the early-summer sun. And then slowly, ever so slowly, she crept her gaze higher and higher—until their eyes met.

  And with two hundred feet between them, tension sizzled like the earth just before a lightning strike.

  Verity’s full mouth formed a perfect pout as she motioned—

  At his shoulder, Giles broke out into a laugh. “Good God, is she ordering you to open your door?”

  “Indeed,” he muttered.

  With a regal toss of her he
ad, Verity returned to her post at the door and set to pounding it again. This time harder, the heavy boom carrying the stretch of distance between there and Malcom’s window. It was an impressive, continual beating sure to drive a man mad—

  And apparently had already driven Bram to the point of lunacy. The rapping stopped as the older man appeared below.

  Giles peered down. “What in God’s name is she saying to him?”

  “I’ve not a damned idea.” After Bram’s last misstep with the shrew, he’d learned his lesson well. “I only know Bram is aware that if he values his post, he’ll not allow—”

  The old tosher smiled and beckoned her forward.

  Verity Lovelace entered, and then the door closed.

  Several beats of silence passed. “He appears to have allowed it,” Giles said with more of that infernal amusement.

  There was something a good deal safer feeling in walking through Malcom’s front doors.

  At least, safer than being secreted away through the alleys with none the wiser, and whisked inside back entrances.

  Or at least, as she was permitted entry to the cramped foyer, that was what she told herself. That was what she attempted to convince herself of.

  Nor was it her current company she was worried after. “Your eyes look better, Mr. Bram,” she lauded as she tugged off her gloves.

  He flashed a crooked grin. “And they doesn’t sting anymore, either.”

  “That is splendid news, indeed,” she said, giving him a cheerful pat on the back. “There’s still the matter of your limp.”

  The brutish-looking man who’d met Verity and Malcom in the kitchens a fortnight ago marched forward, his left leg dragging slightly behind him as if the muscles had ceased to work. He blocked them at the bottom of the stairwell. “North ain’t wanting visitors.”

  “Yes.” She flashed him her most winning smile, the same one she’d donned when she’d asked to be admitted. “But surely His Lordship will accept one.” Verity directed that at the only hope she had.

  Bram grinned back, but a sharp glare from the other fellow killed that smile and her hopes.

  A mask descended over the sentry’s scarred face. “He don’t go by ‘’is Lordship.’”