by Aston, Alexa
The two women decided Caroline would stay for a few months so they could get to know one another better. Then news of war came that June, effectively trapping her in Boston for the duration of the war.
It looked as if the war might be coming to an end soon. General Jackson had soundly trounced the British in New Orleans only last month and hopes ran high in Boston. New England had never been in favor for what was harshly termed Mr. Madison’s War since shipbuilding and ship trading provided the lifeblood of the region. Only the western and southern states had voted to go to war against England, seriously dividing the young nation to the breaking point.
Caroline finished her breakfast and took the dishes back to the kitchen. Mrs. Johnson told her to leave them so Caroline could get to the bookshop. She placed her heavy, plain cloak about her and called Tippet, who came bounding toward her, and they set out for her bookstore. She was finally thinking of the place as hers. It had been exactly a year to the date—and once again, Caroline’s birthday—when Aunt Evie had been struck by a runaway team of horses and died of her injuries. Much to her surprise, Caroline found herself the sole heir of Evie’s estate. Her aunt had sold Captain Morton’s ship after his death and used the proceeds to open a bookstore.
She’d worked in the bookstore alongside her aunt during the first two years in Boston, learning all aspects of the book trade from ordering books to balancing the ledgers. When Aunt Evie died, Caroline grieved but found herself well prepared to run the shop on her own, though she’d hired Josiah Long to help her. In the last year, the shop had its best year of profit, a source of great pride for her.
Tippet kept close as she walked through the narrow streets of Boston, a light snow falling. Once again, she marveled at how she was able to walk the streets of the city alone, with only her dog for company. In London, she would have had to take her maid everywhere. It would be totally unacceptable for her to be unchaperoned. Coming to America had granted her freedoms she never would have experienced if she’d remained in England after Cynthia’s death.
By the time she reached the bookshop, the snow had stopped. As she arrived, she saw Jordy, Mr. Frain’s apprentice, carrying a bundle of newspapers and headed her way. She unlocked the shop and opened the door for him. Jordy breezed through and set the newspapers on the counter, taking out a pocketknife to cut through the string that bound them together.
“Good morning, Caroline,” he said, his usual smile in place. “Do you think today we’ll get good news?”
For Jordy, good news meant hearing if the Americans had won another battle.
“It’s possible,” she said.
“With Jackson’s victory in New Orleans, surely the British will give up now.”
“They’re a tough lot, Jordy. Just look at me,” she teased.
He cocked his head. “I forget you’re British sometimes, Caroline. It seems as if you’ve been in Boston forever.”
Josiah entered the shop and greeted them.
“I’ll be off,” Jordy said. “See you tomorrow.”
After the door closed, Josiah asked, “Was he talking of the war again?”
“Yes. You know he lost his older brother in battle last year. If Mr. Frain didn’t need him so badly at the print shop, I believe Jordy would have run off and joined Harrison’s or Jackson’s army by now.”
He shook his head. “It was a foolish war to fight. Even if we win, it’s crippled our economy.”
She smiled at his New England logic. “At least people still like buying books—and newspapers.”
It had been her idea to carry the local newspaper in the shop. Once upon a time, Caroline had been interested in nothing more than fripperies. Matching ribbons to bonnets. What size and color of reticule to carry. Being in Boston made her more aware of politics and economics. She’d become a voracious reader of the news and found she was in similar company. Both men and women in the city were drawn to the topics.
Because of that, she’d encouraged Aunt Evie to buy large bundles of the newspaper each day to entice people to come to the bookshop. Evie had been reluctant at first but let Caroline try her idea out. Within a fortnight, they had regular customers appearing every day. She’d cleared out space for them to sit and read the news sheets. Sometimes, they stayed to browse—and buy. Her best idea had been to stock licorice and toffee in glass jars near the newspapers. When customers purchased a paper, they inevitably saw the nearby sweets. At times, it was hard keeping the candies in stock because they sold out so frequently.
They opened the shop and the usual group filed in. Over the next several hours, she and Josiah sold all of the newspapers and seven books.
Jordy suddenly flew through the door, his cheeks flushed not from the cold but from the excitement that bubbled up and out of him.
“Caroline! Josiah! The war is over!” He waved a handful of half-sheets of news. “Mr. Frain had me bring these over, knowing customers would flock to your store. They are the first off his press.”
Happiness filled her. She’d hated that her birth country and the one she’d grown so fond of were at war with one another. It was bad enough that Englishmen had to fight Bonaparte, much less their American cousins.
“Quick, let me see.”
Jordy handed her a news sheet and she skimmed it quickly before starting at the beginning and reading every word. What struck her most were the dates mentioned in the article—and the ones she’d read about previously. Diplomats in Belgium had signed a peace treaty at Christmastime, about six weeks ago, but this news was only filtering across the Atlantic. In the meantime, General Jackson and his men had fought the British army under Pakenham at New Orleans on January eight. Both Pakenham and his second-in-command, Gibbs, had been fatally wounded in the battle. The British had lost twenty-six hundred men to injury, death, or capture as prisoners of war, while the Americans only had six wounded and seven killed in action.
That meant that Jackson’s resounding victory came after the peace accords had been signed. Since Americans were only hearing about the Treaty of Ghent now, they would assume it was Andy Jackson’s win in Louisiana that forced the British hand for both sides to lay down their arms. The British would know better but the Americans would cling to their own point of view.
Caroline looked to Jordy. “Go back to Mr. Frain. Bring me double what you brought now. Tell him I’ll be good for it and will settle up with him tomorrow.”
The young man ran out without a backward glance and, soon, the bookshop was filled with patriotic Americans, buying both news sheets and licorice. Somewhere outside the shop a barrel appeared, and customers came in with mugs of ale as they gossiped about the end of the war.
Amidst all the noise, Josiah turned to her and asked, “Will you go home now?”
Caroline finally understood that she had a choice for the first time in three years. Though she loved her newfound freedom, she longed for London.
Slowly, she nodded. “As soon as I can make the arrangements.”
*
Caroline disembarked from the packet boat, Tippet’s leash in one hand and Davy Redmond’s hand in the other. The ship had made good time and crossed the Atlantic in six weeks. She’d been one of a dozen passengers aboard and would now travel from Bristol to London by coach.
It surprised her how quickly things came together once she decided to leave Boston. Aunt Evie’s will had left everything to Caroline. She’d found a buyer for the bookshop and made keeping Josiah on a part of the sale agreement. The house sold even more quickly and Mrs. Johnson had decided to stay on and work for the couple who purchased it. They had seven children and the childless housekeeper was looking forward to having young people in the house.
She waited near where they disembarked for her two trunks to arrive. Once they did, she left Davy with Tippet to guard them while she went in search of transportation. She had quite a bit of money from the sale of the shop and house but had grown frugal during her stay in Boston, aware of money for the first time. Instead of hiring a
post-chaise, which would cost her approximately a pound for each mile they traveled, she looked for a mail coach instead. After asking, she was directed to a mail coach office only a stone’s throw away.
A mail coach was loading as she arrived. Already, the interior of the coach had filled up with four passengers and bags of mail and she watched as seven people climbed atop the vehicle, one sitting next to the coach driver. She had two trunks, Davy, Tippet, and herself. They would need a mail coach all to themselves if that was how she chose to journey to London.
The vehicle took off and Caroline marched inside the office. After haggling with the clerk on duty, she purchased every ticket on the mail coach that would depart in two hours. It meant not only buying every ticket available but paying double to three passengers that had already bought their tickets. They seemed delighted to accept twice what they’d paid for their tickets and would be able to take a different coach in the morning. The cost still came out to be reasonable and affordable. It would also be much more comfortable for their journey to London.
She hired one of the pleased ticket holders to bring her trunks to the loading area and accompanied him to where Davy and Tippet patiently waited. The boy, only seven, had been orphaned and worked on the packet ship she’d taken from Boston. When he wasn’t on duty working as a cabin boy, he’d spent every waking minute with Caroline while she taught him to read. Davy was a quick study and she knew she could find a place for him in her father’s household. It would have been criminal to leave him aboard the ship, especially since he’d taken so to her. She’d speak to Stinch about Davy being trained as a footman or stable boy and never bother her father with the details.
Tippet, on the other hand, would be something that required a deft hand. Her father despised dogs and cats equally. Though she and Cynthia had begged for a pet, he’d always refused. The old Lady Caroline would have hidden Tippet in the stables and only visited him each day. The independent Caroline Andrews of Boston would boldly march in with Tippet and dare her father to say anything. Of course, that would mean he would actually have to be home when she arrived. Knowing the Earl of Templeton, he would be at one of his clubs with his cronies, playing cards and drinking the day—or night—away. Or with one of his many mistresses, which he never bothered to hide from his family. She hoped her future husband would use more discretion when it came to having a mistress.
If she even bothered with a husband.
Caroline had thought about that long and hard during the endless days at sea. She would be arriving in London the last week in March. The Season would begin in about two and a half weeks. She had no clothes appropriate to wear to any ton event. She would have received no invitations to said events since she’d been gone for over three years and had never made her come-out. Moreover, she was now twenty-three years old, which would be considered on the shelf by most bachelors sampling the Marriage Mart. Those three strikes against her were enough to dissuade her from attempting to participate in her first Season.
The largest factor, though, was the fact that she didn’t think she wanted a husband. Her time in Boston had radically changed her. She wasn’t the meek, sweet-tempered girl she’d been when she left London. She’d returned informed, opinionated, and with some wealth. If she married, the profits she’d made from the bookshop and selling Aunt Evie’s home would belong to her husband the moment she spoke her vows.
Caroline wasn’t sure if she wanted to give up her independence and money for some man.
Finally, she had both trunks in hand, along with Davy and Tippet. She sent Davy to buy something for them to eat and he returned with meat pies. Tippet, in particular, enjoyed the treat. They boarded their mail coach when the time came. Her trunks were placed on top, along with several bags of mail, while she and her companions shared the interior with more sacks of correspondence. They changed horses about every two hours and arrived in London early the next afternoon.
Caroline flagged down a hackney driver and had him load her trunks while she hustled Davy and Tippet inside. She gave the driver the address to her father’s townhome and then settled in for the ride. Davy had never seen a city as large as London and kept shouting about the sights they passed. It delighted her to see him happy. Tippet barked occasionally, as if chiming in with his own opinion.
As they pulled into the square where the townhouse was located, she saw three riders exiting from the property that sat directly in front of them. It thrilled her that they might finally have neighbors. The place had stood vacant for periods of time and then was leased on occasion for a few months at a time. She’d heard rumors about a boy who was a marquess owning it but never living there since he was at school during the year and at his country estate in the summers. She hoped the boy had grown up and finally taken ownership of it. Perhaps, he’d even wed and had children. Caroline hoped so and that she could befriend his wife.
The cab turned and came to rest in front of her own residence. She lowered Davy to the ground and Tippet jumped out, barking. The driver helped her disembark and then removed her trunks as she watched the three on horseback turn from the square and head toward Hyde Park. The driver finished toting the trunks to the doorstep and Caroline paid him. Taking Davy’s hand and Tippet’s leash, she started toward the door as the cab pulled away.
Immediately, she halted in her tracks.
A black wreath adorned the front door. It could only mean one thing.
The Earl of Templeton was no more.
Chapter Two
Luke St. Clair, Earl of Mayfield, lay propped upon pillows, bare to his waist. And bored.
Definitely, bored.
His current mistress, Catarina, pretended to be Scheherazade, dancing in some filmy costume that she’d concocted. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that Scheherazade was a storyteller, not a dancer, as Catarina tossed off another layer of the gauzy material she wore and it floated to the ground. Catarina often confused things. Even her own origins. At one point, she’d claimed to be from Florence. Another time she led him to believe she was born in Barcelona. Or perhaps Madrid. Luke couldn’t remember. And didn’t care.
He had definitely tired of Catarina.
His morning had already included parting ways with his current ton lover. A pretty widow who was almost thirty, the baroness had actually taught him a thing or two in the bedroom during their torrid affair of the last few months. When he’d broken the news to her earlier that he was ending things between them, she’d cried and clung to him—until he produced a pair of ruby earrings. After that, she couldn’t get him out of her rooms fast enough.
Luke had stopped for lunch at his club and then come straight here, ready to do the same with Catarina. He was in no mood for the games she wished to play. Often, she had them pretend to be great lovers, such as Caesar and Cleopatra or Romeo and Juliet. She knew the names of these famous pairs but not the fact that their love ended in tragedy and death. Catarina was beautiful and fun to be with. He had no doubt she would find someone new before he returned to his London townhome tonight.
In the meantime, he needed her to stop what she was doing and listen to reason. At times, she had a volatile temper. He was in no mood to deal with it. Tears, possibly, but not shouting and objects being tossed about, particular ones aimed at his head. He glanced up and saw that the last layer of cloth danced through the air. His mistress climbed onto the bed on all fours and made her way up the mattress to him, a ravenous look in her eyes. She was an incredibly beautiful woman.
And Luke felt absolutely nothing for her.
Catalina reached him, her fingers dancing lightly up his bare chest as she straddled him. She pushed them into his hair and bent to kiss him. He allowed it. She broke the kiss almost immediately. He smiled up at her.
“Your mouth is smiling at me, my earl, but it does not reach your eyes,” she said sadly. “Is this our end?”
“Yes.”
Her palms flattened against his chest and she ran them up and down it, as if committing his b
ody to memory.
“I’ll help you find a new protector,” he offered.
She laughed. “I have turned down many in the year we have been together, my earl. That won’t be a problem. Besides, you leave me in fine shape.” She placed a kiss upon his chest. “This wonderful house is paid for. You also found me the best cook in London.”
“I may actually want her back,” Luke teased.
Catarina playfully swatted at him. “You may not have her. She is mine. Loyal to me alone.” She studied him a moment. “It was always going to end this way, wasn’t it, my earl?”
She’d never called him by his name, a fact that he appreciated. Only a handful of people called him Luke. The next woman that called him by his Christian name would become his wife.
He was ready for one.
He’d had three mistresses and several lovers over the past few years. They’d all pleased him in one way or another. There was a time when he thought he would be happy in this kind of life for years to come, only settling down once he passed thirty. The trouble was, his siblings’ happiness had affected him more than he’d care to admit.
Jeremy, his older brother and Duke of Everton, had wed Catherine Crawford after his first wife died. They now had four children and were more passionately in love than before they wed and had little ones running around. Rachel, his younger sister, had married Evan Drake, Marquess of Merrick, last summer. She’d given birth to his nephew, Seth, just over three weeks ago. They, too, were madly in love. Both couples were the talk of the ton because they didn’t bother to hide their deep affection for their spouses.
