Redeeming The Reclusive Earl (HQR Historical)

by Virginia Heath

  ‘Perfectly.’ She waved it away in typical Eleanor fashion. ‘Everything is sorted now. Max is on his way.’ She sat beside Lord Denby and snapped open her napkin. ‘Tenants! Do you have them, my lord?’

  ‘Indeed I do, madam. Many.’ He made it sound like a brag.

  ‘Then you will appreciate what a chore they can be sometimes. How are the kippers, Percy? To your satisfaction.’

  An oddly reticent Percy nodded. ‘Splendid as always, Eleanor.’ But an odd look passed between them which did nothing to ease Effie’s nerves. ‘The carriage leaves in forty minutes.’ A strange thing to say for no apparent reason. ‘On the stroke of nine.’

  ‘Excellent...excellent. Then everything is on time.’ Smithson passed the older woman some tea and she gulped it down and then glared at Effie as if she expected her to make all the conversation.

  ‘It is a shame you cannot stay a little longer, gentlemen.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said Lord Whittlesey, ‘but Sir Percival has to be at the printers before they close tonight to oversea the final proofs of Archaeologia, so alas our journey is going to be arduous. He delayed the presses in view of Lord Rivenhall’s discovery.’

  ‘Did my sketches make it to the engravers in time?’

  ‘I sent them by express yesterday morning to ensure they accompanied the article. Our members will doubtless appreciate their inclusion.’ Lord Denby gave her what she assumed was his version of a smile. ‘These past few days have been most enlightening.’ Indeed they had. For all manner of reasons. ‘I cannot remember when I have been so impressed with a fresh discovery. Roundhouses! Who knew?’

  * * *

  The next half an hour crawled past slowly. Eleanor kept glancing towards the door. Percy barely said a word and Max failed to materialise. The gentlemen were in the process of leaving the table when he finally strode into the room and Effie swore she saw both his sister and Percy physically sag with relief.

  ‘Sorry I am late, everyone!’ He looked tired. Rumpled. As if he had slept in his clothes. ‘Tenants! What a palaver.’

  ‘You are just in time to wave the antiquarians off, Max.’ Eleanor’s smile was as brittle as spun sugar. ‘I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.’

  ‘Well, I did.’ His eyes flicked to Effie’s then and they were filled with apology. ‘Better late than never.’

  As he pulled out his sister’s chair so they could wave off their guests, she noticed his fingers were covered in ink. Then Smithson hurried in and skidded to a stop directly in front of them. ‘The carriage is loaded, my lord.’

  ‘Is all the luggage on board?’

  ‘Indeed it is, my lord. Including the small case Lord Percival accidentally left in his bedchamber.’

  ‘Capital.’ Max came to Effie’s chair next and solicitously pulled it out before taking her hand and wrapping it tightly around his and squeezing it in reassurance, although lord only knew what he was reassuring her of.

  The three of them stood on the porch as the antiquarians climbed into the coach, and they stayed there waving, fake smiles glued in place until it disappeared down the drive. The second it did, Eleanor slumped against a column. ‘Smithson! Bring some sherry. No, make that brandy! I don’t care if it is nine o’clock, my poor nerves are shot.’

  ‘Would somebody please tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘It was nothing. A little hiccup. I fixed it.’ Max frowned as his sister punched his arm.

  ‘Oh, you fixed it, did you? That would be the reason I have been up all night, my eyes are crossed and my poor nerves are shot to pieces! Not to mention the not-inconsequential detail that if you hadn’t broken things in the first place they wouldn’t have needed fixing!’

  ‘Please tell me what has happened?’

  ‘Percy discovered you were Miss Nithercott.’

  ‘Thanks to your big mouth! And because of plagiarism, fraud and the stupid rules of that silly Society he belongs to, he wasn’t going to publish your paper, Effie!’

  Max saw her face drop and smiled. ‘But he is now. Because I rewrote it.’

  ‘You rewrote it!’ Eleanor whacked him again.

  ‘All right... I wrote the additional words while Eleanor dictated them, although frankly and do not tell the upright Sir Percy, they are still mostly yours, Effie, because I had to plagiarise them. Neither of us knew what half of it meant. It took us all night.’

  ‘You should have woken me.’

  ‘I didn’t dare. The only way I could convince him to publish the new article was if it all came from my pen. He was adamant Lord Denby would have his guts for garters if he allowed a woman’s work to slip through the net... Society might crumble after all... Although to be fair to him he did think the stupid rules were old fashioned and he did think your article was one of the best things he had ever read. And we were both disgusted that you weren’t going to get the credit for it—so I changed a few things. Wrote it from a different perspective.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘After a long and heated discussion about those blasted rules, we both came to the conclusion they say the Society will not accept articles written by a woman—but that does not mean they cannot publish articles about a woman. So now, instead of giving me all the credit for the discovery, the paper tells the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘That I merely wielded the pickaxe and you were the brains. I submitted the article as your humble assistant, Effie. It will go to press tonight and before Lord Denby can stop it, it will have been distributed to every antiquarian from here to John O’Groats.’

  ‘I get all the credit?’

  ‘Every last bit. I’ve even committed to doing a talk at your dratted Society on the subject next month in London in front of a baying, staring crowd, where I will also reiterate your brilliance and denounce I had any hand in it beyond that of pickaxe-wielding minion who just did as he was told.’ He smiled smugly at her stunned face. ‘You can kiss me now.’

  ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.’ What a wonderful man she had! ‘But you don’t have to do a talk, Max. The article is enough—no, more than enough for me. My work is being published! That is all I ever wanted.’

  ‘I know. But it’s time to cast off my widower’s weeds and stop hiding from the world.’ He tapped his lips. ‘I am still waiting.’

  Eleanor beamed and hugged her tight. ‘Congratulations! Max told me you are engaged! I couldn’t be happier for you both. And he’s taking you to sea! That is so romantic!’ She sighed and clutched her heart.

  ‘Where she can be my blasted assistant for a change. For six months of every year...after she’s worked her way up the ranks and learned the ropes, of course, the way I did. You can’t learn to be a sailor by reading. Just as you cannot become an antiquarian until you’ve done the drudge work.’

  ‘You expect your fiancée to begin as a cabin boy?’

  ‘She’s a clever thing.’ He pretended to ponder it, his sinfully talented mouth struggling to contain his smile. ‘I suppose she can come aboard as an ordinary seaman and I’ll only make her swab the decks on alternate Tuesdays.’ He turned to Effie, love, desire and mischief dancing an apt sailor’s jig in his beautiful dark eyes. ‘Meanwhile—Miss Not A Nithercott For Much Longer, thank the lord—I still seem to be waiting for that kiss. And as your occasional Captain...’ he tugged her into his arms and pulled the pencil out of the hair she had worn expressly for him and always would ‘...but never your lord and master...and in case that big brain of yours was wondering...after the night I’ve had, that’s an order.’

  * * *

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Matchmaker and the Duke by Ann Lethbridge.

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  The Matchmaker and the Duke

  by Ann Lethbridge

  Chapter One

  1817

  ‘Jasper, it is high time you married.’

  Jasper Simon Warren, Duke of Stone, Marquess of Felmont and Earl Blackmore, despised conversation at breakfast. He did not raise his gaze from his newspaper. ‘I see.’

  ‘Jasper, did you hear what I said? You have a duty to the dukedom.’

  The sharp edge in her voice indicated Aunt Mary was not going to take the hint.

  He lowered his newspaper a fraction. ‘Are you accusing me of neglecting my duties, Aunt?’ He let the ice in his tone sink into her awareness.

  The spring sun, streaming through the windows of the ducal town house, gave no quarter to the elderly lady. Dressed in a forest-green gown and lace cap of the latest fashion, the wrinkles in her cheeks and around her mouth, the thinness of her carefully primped hair, proclaimed a woman well past her sixtieth year. ‘Certainly not, Jasper. I simply want you to be happy.’

  He stared at her in astonishment. ‘I assure you, I am perfectly content.’

  The creases in her forehead deepened. ‘Contentment is not the same as happiness.’

  ‘Who defines happiness? And since when has society latched upon the idea that happiness is vital to a person’s existence?’

  After years of observing the marriages of his peers from the sidelines, he had few illusions.

  And yet... ‘My parents were happy, were they not?’

  ‘I never heard anything to the contrary.’

  Hardly a ringing endorsement. Had he perhaps imagined them as happy? Created a fantasy to ease the loss? Was he wrong to aspire to the sort of joy he recalled in their presence? And could he have been mistaken about the truth of it?

  Aunt Mary made a sound of impatience. ‘Besides, no matter what, the dukedom needs an heir.’

  The real reason for her fussing. ‘All in good time.’ He raised his paper, focusing on the article on the latest arguments for Parliamentary reform.

  ‘You are not getting any younger,’ she muttered.

  Really! He folded his newspaper and put it down beside his plate where a few crumbs of toast and a smear of marmalade were all that remained of what had been a very fine breakfast. ‘I am thirty-five. Not exactly in my dotage.’

  ‘You will be thirty-six next month. I want to see things settled before I go to my final rest.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Are you ill? Shall I send for a physician?’

  She coloured high on her cheekbones. ‘Certainly not. But, Jasper, time is running out. The Season is well underway and those looking for wives will snap up the most eligible girls in a trice.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you suggesting that should I indicate an interest in a female, she will turn me down for someone she met earlier in the Season?’

  ‘Of course not. No woman in their right mind would turn down an offer from the Duke of Stone.’

  Even if they wanted to, as he had learned in his youth. He pushed the unpleasant memory aside. Dwelling on the past helped no one. ‘Well, my dear Aunt Mary, since I have no intention of offering for a woman who is not in her right mind, I can see no reason for haste.’ He eyed his newspaper. He would take it to his study. No one would dare interrupt him there.

  ‘They would refuse you if they had already accepted another offer. How do you know there is not a lady among this latest group to come out whom you would not prefer above all others?’

  ‘I am sure all of them are respectable young women whose parents would leap at a crown of strawberry leaves. I do not expect to encounter any difficulties.’

  ‘How can you know, Stone, if you do not look?’ Her voice was full of exasperation. She shook her head. ‘There is no point in talking to you about this, I can see. But take my advice, marry now while you are still in your prime. No one knows what the future holds.’

  He frowned. Aunt Mary was making more of a fuss about this than she had about anything since...since he could not remember when. And, yes, he knew he had to bestir himself at some point. Find the right sort of woman to be his Duchess. He simply had not thought of it as urgent. Nor was it. Yet his aunt seemed genuinely distressed. ‘Very well. To please you, I will take a look at this year’s crop.’

  A veritable study of nonchalance, she picked up a pile of invitations set by her plate and sorted through them. She didn’t fool him for a moment.

  ‘Was there something you wanted to add?’

  She put the cards down with a snap. ‘There are two girls whom you might wish to meet. The Mitchell sisters. Both outrageously lovely, reasonably well bred and exceedingly well dowered. I saw them at Lady Dobson’s musical evening last night.’

  ‘Lady Dobson?’ A chill invaded his veins. ‘Not exactly the cream of the ton, my dear. Not the sort of company I like to keep. And I assume by reasonably well bred you mean not of the peerage?’

  His aunt grimaced. ‘Sally Jersey suggested I attend to take a look at them. She’d heard much about their beauty and accomplishments and requested my opinion. Both presented exceedingly well. Another pair like the Gunning girls, I would say.’

  The Gunning sisters were still talked about in the drawing rooms of the ton. They had taken London by storm and married well above their station. ‘Not the sort of wife I seek.’

  ‘Then you are looking.’ She sounded so relieved, he did not have the heart to disabuse her of the notion. Aunt Mary was one of the few people whose feelings he cared about. Not that she usually got up in the boughs about anything. She certainly must be feeling her age if she was panicking about marrying him off. And she wasn’t entirely wrong to be concerned. It was time.

  He sighed. ‘Do not expect me to attend events hosted by the likes of Lady Dobson.’ Her husband, a banker, had been knighted by the King for services rendered. Likely a personal loan or an inside tip on a profitable investment. Not a member of the nobility.

  ‘Certainly not. You know better than to ask. Mrs Durant has them in hand. After my endorsement you will meet them at all the best parties.’

  ‘Durant?’

  ‘Three years ago, her husband broke his neck in a steeplechase.’

  Ah, yes. ‘I remember him. A reckless idiot. I do not recall a wife.’

  ‘She was a Linden. Her cousin holds the viscountcy now. She has become well known for her matchmaking skills.’

  ‘You seriously think I should consider one of these girls?’ It sounded so unlike his aunt, he could not keep the curiosity out of his voice.

  ‘I have been throwing eminently eligible daughters of the ton in your path for the past ten years and not once have you shown any interest. I thought perhaps your taste was so jaded, I should try something different.’

  Jaded? He wasn’t jaded. Cynical. There was a description he could own, too. He’d had enough toadies and sycophants trying to get his attention since he inherited the title at the age of fifteen that he could spot one a mile off. But he wasn’t jaded. He was comfortable. He had a small group of friends, mostly male, whose wealth meant they did not seek to use him for their own ends and therefore whom he trusted.

  He also had a mistress, Jane Garnet, whose favours he had enjoyed to the full for many years. A woman with whom he had agreed upon an exclusive arrangement, who was quite content to entertain him whenever he felt the need.

  ‘I suppose next you will be tel
ling me I should pay off Mrs Garnet.’

  His aunt rifled through the invitations and did not meet his gaze. ‘It might be as well.’

  Damn it all.

  It seemed his life of comfort was slipping away.

  ‘I thought the older girl might be ideal for you. And the younger for Albert.’

  She spoke this last in such a low tone, he almost missed it. Aunt Mary continually thought to push Albert Carling, the only surviving relative on her mother’s side, up society’s ladder. Marriage to an heiress would certainly gild his path.

  At one time, Jasper had been close with Albert. Unfortunately, Albert had not proved true and now they remained cordial but distant.

  * * *

  Three ladies tried to ignore Mr Mitchell pacing the drawing room of the town house he had rented close to Bedford Square. Two were his daughters, Charity and Patience, both blonde, pretty and making their come out in the London Season. The other, Mrs Amelia Durant, a lady with dark hair and eyes, was approaching her thirtieth year. While she was sure that she herself had never been deemed a great beauty, she had been born into the highest of society’s circles and she wearied of Mr Mitchell and his tirades.

  ‘Mrs Durant, I was told you know all the best people and can find the right husbands for my daughters.’ He paused and stared over his pince-nez at Amelia on the morning after his daughters’ first foray into the ton. ‘Now you tell me there wasn’t a single earl or duke at that party.’

  ‘Oh, Papa,’ Charity Mitchell said, raising her blue eyes from her needlework to meet his stern gaze. She gave him a sweet smile. ‘Lord Philpot was there and Sir Robert...something. I forget.’ She glanced over at Amelia.

  ‘Lord Robert Partere,’ she supplied. ‘A very old family with excellent connections.’

  Amelia had explained her plan to Mr Mitchell more than once, but he didn’t seem to grasp the need for a light touch. Marrying girls off to suitable gentlemen, especially those of the nobility, was a very delicate matter. The girls might be utterly lovely, but their background was strictly middle class.