An Unexpected Earl Read online

  Sweet heavens, how had her life come to this?

  “So why were you running?”

  “I—” She bit down the sting of guilt at lying to the woman who had been with her since she was eighteen. “Frederick saw me.”

  A new string of Irish curses poured from Maggie, even more creative than the ones before. “Did he recognize you?”

  “He only saw me in my mask, only for a moment.” And mostly as she was running away. “No, I’m certain he didn’t.”

  But the other man who’d seen her had recognized her immediately. Brandon Pearce… Good heavens, what was he doing there?

  It had been over a decade since they’d last seen each other. Since that horrible night of her sixteenth birthday when he’d come to her bedroom, crawling in through her window just as he’d always done since they were children to give her his present—a little gold locket that he’d saved up all his money to buy. The same night when he’d come close to taking her innocence. Very close. She would have let him, too, if Papa hadn’t burst in upon them.

  Even now her cheeks heated with the humiliation of it, their friendship abruptly over and both of them banished—Amelia to school in Scotland by her father and Pearce into the army by his cousin, the Earl of Sandhurst, who’d called in favors to quickly purchase an officer’s commission for him. Neither man wanted the scandal that would befall both their families if anyone learned of what happened. Or risk the possibility that it might happen again.

  Her father’s plan had worked. Not one mention of scandal was ever raised about the two of them, and they never saw each other again.

  Until tonight. When the sight of him had ripped Amelia’s breath away.

  Twelve years… Could it truly have been that long since they’d last been together? But her heart knew it was so. The foolish thing had kept count.

  He’d changed over the years. The gangly eighteen-year-old she’d known had become a man, leaving behind almost no trace of the boy he’d once been. Yet she would have known him anywhere despite the fine wrinkles that age now crinkled in the corners of his blue eyes and the wide breadth of the muscular shoulders that army life and hard work had given him. Gone, too, was the restlessness she remembered, transformed now into a confidence that radiated from him like his rich scent of port and cigars. So heady and powerful, and just as masculine.

  When he’d approached her tonight, she felt as if time had folded in upon itself and those years apart had never passed. The ache in her belly came so swiftly and fiercely at seeing him that for one excruciating moment she’d been transported back to Birmingham, when her world hadn’t yet crumbled around her. When she’d still believed that she would always be with him.

  An earl and a brigadier—wouldn’t her father have laughed his wig off to know that this was what Pearce had made of himself, against all odds?

  But then, maybe not. Gordon Howard had never possessed a strong sense of humor. Nor did he hold any love for Pearce, a young man he’d viewed as a threat to his daughter’s proper future as the wife of an aristocrat. A worry that had proven worthless in the end.

  “You’d better hope that Mr. Howard didn’t see you,” Maggie warned, “or it won’t be Sir Charles you’ll be dealin’ with but a husband. He’ll see to that!”

  Amelia choked down an ironic laugh. That could never happen. After all, not even her brother possessed the power to force a husband upon her when she already had one. Somewhere.

  But she also couldn’t let the scandalous things she suspected Freddie might have done become known. Because if her brother’s sins ever came to light, then so would hers. And those of her absent husband.

  “Help me out of this gown and into my dress, will you?” She scooted to the edge of the seat, hoping to change subjects while she changed clothes. The last thing she needed now was Maggie’s worry. Or her prying. “We’re almost to Mayfair, and Freddie’s servants cannot see me like this.”

  “I’m one of his servants.” Maggie’s lips pursed in chastisement. “And I don’t think undressing in a hired hackney is at all proper, not for the sister of an MP and a respectable lady who depends upon her reputation.”

  In other words, a lady who had nothing but her reputation and the good graces of her brother to survive upon.

  But those graces were now under attack, and she simply wouldn’t sit by and let their lives be destroyed.

  Oh, Frederick could certainly be weak-spined and self-serving, but he’d also supported her in those dark days seven years ago after Aaron Northam had wed her and then abandoned her before the ink on the parish register was even dry, stealing her fortune and shattering her heart. Freddie had hired all manner of lawyers, accountants, and investigators in a desperate attempt to find Aaron and force him to return—and to return her money. But Aaron had fled to America, and once there, he’d vanished, leaving no trace.

  After two years, Amelia agreed with Frederick to give up the search. No one except the two of them—and Aaron—knew that she was married, and she’d go to her grave keeping it that way. Because Freddie had also protected her from being a social pariah by covering up all traces of her reckless elopement.

  True, Freddie had also been protecting himself by helping her; even then he’d had political ambitions, and the brother of a socially ruined woman could never have a career in the Commons, especially when the seat he’d been given had been granted by influential friends who would gladly rescind it to keep his family’s tarnished reputation from tainting theirs. And true, as well, that even though he’d taken her under his roof and provided her with an allowance, he’d never let her forget how foolish she’d been.

  Yet Freddie hadn’t had to help her at all. Now that he was in deep trouble, just as she’d been, how could she turn her back on him?

  “Yes, you’re a Howard servant, but you’re also my friend.” Amelia’s eyes heated with desperate emotion. “And right now Frederick and I both need your help.” She presented her back to her maid. “Please.”

  Maggie grudgingly switched benches to sit beside her and began to unbutton Amelia’s tight bodice.

  “Thank you,” Amelia said over her shoulder as the dress loosened enough that she could shimmy out of it. “I couldn’t do this without you, you know that.”

  “What I know is that both our gooses will be cooked if your brother ever catches wind of what you did tonight.”

  Amelia smiled at the lack of venom in Maggie’s scolding. “Then he won’t find out. Even if he does, I’ll protect you. I promise.”

  Pearce’s words flashed through her mind—So I could rescue you.

  If he only knew the truth! Stripping out of a gown designed for a courtesan in a hired hackney rolling through Mayfair…she wasn’t certain that even a brigadier turned earl could rescue her from the mess her life had become.

  Or if he’d even want to. They hadn’t exactly parted well all those years ago, their childhood friendship coming to a crashing end. Papa had made certain that they’d never see or contact each other again by threatening to have Pearce court-martialed and her married off immediately to any son of a peer he could find if they ever tried. Neither of them dared attempt it for fear that it would ruin the other. In that, at least, their lives had still been entwined.

  And in that, she also knew that Pearce had loved her. Because he’d let her go.

  Losing him had been sheer hell, but she would never begrudge him the outcome. After all, because of that night, he was given the chance for a grand life in the army, a life he deserved—or at least that was the lie she told herself in order to survive the pain. And she’d planned to marry, to have a house of her own, a family…all those things she’d hoped would replace the emptiness Pearce’s leaving had created. Only once had she attempted to rekindle their friendship. After Papa died and was no longer an obstacle between them, she’d sent off a series of letters to Pearce, confessing her feelings and asking for
a new chance at a future together.

  But he’d never replied. Not once. Apparently, by then he no longer wanted her.

  Soon after, she met Aaron and determined to have the life with him that fate had denied her with Pearce. She’d done her best to put the past behind her and move on.

  Only tonight, when she was waltzing in his arms, did she realize how much she’d truly missed him. The pain had been simply brutal.

  With her buttons undone, Amelia stood as tall as she could in the swaying carriage and gripped the ceiling for support, one hand at a time, so that Maggie could remove her gown. In the darkness, no one could see into the compartment and glimpse her in her stays and chemise, but unease fluttered butterflies in her belly—or perhaps that was a result of the evening. Surely not all of the swaying that gripped her was because of the rocking carriage.

  Would she even know him now? Was any of the boy she’d loved still left inside the man Pearce had become?

  Things were so different before, when they were children. They’d been brought together only because of the proximity of her father’s town house to his uncle’s inn. He’d been raised there by his uncle after he’d been orphaned, and she’d been allowed to wander unsupervised from the house after her own mother died. After all, Papa had no care or use for her then. That was before he’d made his fortune and came to society’s notice. Before he needed a daughter to marry the son of a peer and launch the Howards into the aristocracy.

  Back then she and Pearce had been nothing more than two misfits who belonged nowhere except with each other. Companionship turned into friendship and eventually into affection. For Amelia, it became love. She’d wanted nothing more than to be with him for the rest of her life.

  But it had all come crashing down, and nothing could ever be the same between them again.

  Maggie slid the blue muslin dress over Amelia’s head and tugged it down into place around her hips and legs. Amelia sank onto the bench.

  “You didn’t have the chance to learn anything more at all, then?” the maid pressed as she reached to button her up. “About what Mr. Howard’s been up to?”

  “No.” Although after seeing Pearce, her brother had been the least of her concerns.

  Maggie pulled pins from her own hair and began to twist Amelia’s into a chignon. “What do we do next?”

  “I don’t know.” But surrender was not an option, not when her brother’s career hung in the balance. If Frederick truly had done something illegal—and what MP hadn’t these days?—then he might very well be ruined, thrown out of Parliament, perhaps even arrested and put into prison. And her life would be ruined right along with his. A victim of proximity. If he fell, she’d go tumbling after, and the women her charity helped right along with them. “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

  Ignoring the painful hopelessness that panged inside her, she kicked off her red slippers and pulled on a pair of sturdy half-boots. Her normal, not-so-glamorous fare. She turned toward Maggie and pulled her long sleeves into place. “How do I look?”

  The woman gave her an assessing glance. “Plain and boring.”

  “Perfect.” After all, she had to look as if she’d spent the evening at one of her bluestocking meetings. She trusted no one inside her brother’s house except for Maggie, not knowing where the blackmailer had gotten his information. And if Frederick ever discovered what she’d done tonight and why…God help her.

  “Anything else you want to tell me about tonight?” Maggie asked as she folded up the gown and tucked it into the bag in which she usually carried her knitting. They would have to smuggle the dress into the house, then back to Madame Noir, the brothel owner who had lent it to Amelia. For a hefty price, of course. Madame was nothing if not mercenary. “Seems to me that you’re awfully upset just to have run into your brother.”

  “Doesn’t Freddie upset everyone he runs into?” Amelia muttered.

  The woman shot her a chastising look.

  With a long sigh, Amelia admitted, “I saw someone else there…an old friend.”

  “Oh?” Maggie arched a curious brow.

  “Not that kind of old friend,” she corrected. Heavens! The last thing she needed was Maggie thinking of love matches for her. No, those kinds of hopes had been dashed long ago. “A childhood friend from Birmingham. I hadn’t seen him since I was sixteen. It was a bit of a shock.”

  “I can imagine.” Maggie pursed her lips together suspiciously. “What kind of friend of yours would attend a masquerade like that?”

  A brigadier. That’s what Pearce would have answered, what he was certainly most proud of. Not some silly title that was handed down like old linen, but something he had to work to earn. Something that proved his worth.

  “A very successful one,” she answered sincerely.

  The carriage turned onto Hill Street, and her brother’s town house came into view. The three-bay terrace house perfectly symbolized her brother—aristocratic tastes on a tradesman’s allowance. She’d always wondered how he’d managed to afford the house, belong to so many clubs, frequent the best tailors, and spend nearly every evening at cards, drink, and women on the meager income their father had left him. She’d never dared to question him, knowing that she should be the last person to question how he managed his money, given how foolishly she’d lost hers.

  But since finding the blackmail note, she’d begun to wonder… Had he been taking bribes? Was that why his friends had worked so hard to place him into the Minehead seat when he didn’t have the money to buy it himself? Had that been how he funded his lifestyle? Or was he involved with something even worse, like smuggling?

  Certainly, there were gambling debts and prostitutes. He’d never cared about hiding evidence of those, despite how he kept all of his other papers under lock and key in his study. Yet there had to have been so much more that he’d been doing that she didn’t know about.

  But the blackmailer knew, and whatever Freddie had done now threatened to come crashing down on both their heads if she couldn’t find a way to stop it.

  Amelia rapped at the roof of the carriage to signal for the jarvey to stop. “Ready?”

  Maggie gave a conspiratorial nod and recited, “It was an evening of spirited bluestocking discussion among the London Ladies regarding Voltaire. And tea. Lots of tea, although I suspect that Lady Agnes Sinclair slipped whiskey into hers.”

  Amelia laughed. A perfect alibi!

  She squeezed the woman’s hand in gratitude, then opened the door and descended to the footpath. If the hackney driver noticed that she’d changed clothes en route, he made no comment, only tugging at the brim of his tall hat when she indicated that someone from inside the house would pay the fare. Linking arms with Maggie, Amelia walked to the front door, rapped the brass knocker, and waited.

  The door opened, and the man who served as butler, valet, and footman all rolled into one nodded at her. Another servant whom she now didn’t trust. “Good evening, miss.”

  “Drummond.” She smiled. “Would you please pay the jarvey?”

  The butler swung his gaze to Maggie, who nervously clutched at her knitting bag so tightly that her fingertips almost glowed white. Under his suspicious frown, the maid began to shake.

  But Amelia gave the woman no time to panic as she tightened her hold on her arm and whisked her past Drummond and into the house. She hurried Maggie up the stairs to her room, grabbing a candle from the wall sconce on the first landing to light their way. With a deep sigh of relief, Amelia handed over the candle and sagged back against the closed door.

  Thank God this horrible evening was finally over.

  Her breathing returned to normal as Maggie moved around the room, lighting another candle on the bedside stand and bending down to stir up the banked fire in the small fireplace. The coals flamed, a soft glow lighting the room.

  “You’ll have to keep the gown with you t
onight,” Amelia instructed, pushing herself away from the door. She couldn’t risk that the maid-of-all-work might find it in her room, then report to Frederick. “I’ll collect it from you after breakfast and return it to Madame Noir on my way to the shop.”

  “La!” Maggie stood and wiped the soot from her hands. “For what that woman charged, you could have bought a new dress of your own.”

  No, she couldn’t have. Satin was expensive, and the dressmaker would have sent a bill. Frederick monitored every ha’penny she spent and would want to know why she’d bought a ball gown. A red satin one, no less. But Madame Noir survived on the scandalous and knew how to keep her confidences. That was what Amelia had paid so dearly to obtain—not the woman’s dress but her silence.

  Madame Noir ran a brothel on King Street where she sold women to society gentlemen, ironically only a few doors down from Almack’s, where marriage-minded mamas sold their own daughters to the same society gentlemen. Amelia knew about Madame’s business because Frederick had received bills from the woman for services rendered. Discretion guaranteed, the invoices read.

  Amelia had taken her up on that promise.

  “It was the only way,” she sighed.

  She took the gown from the bag and held it up to look covetously at it one more time. Such a beautiful dress! She’d felt beautiful in it, too, especially when Pearce’s eyes darkened when they’d swept over her in a way he’d never looked at her when she was younger. As if he’d wanted to devour her. A shiver sped through her just thinking about it.

  “It is a shame, though, that I only wore it once,” she murmured, watching how the firelight shimmered across the material. “How grand it would be to be able to wear something like this to the opera or—”

  “Amelia!”

  Her heart lurched into her throat as her brother’s voice boomed through the town house. The dress slipped through her numb fingers to the floor.