West End Earl

by Bethany Bennett

  “Who else should I talk to about these things? You’re basically the only person I know in London besides my Saint Albans friends. I can’t talk to Henrietta until tomorrow, and Clementine glared at me tonight, so she might be jealous.”

  She had a point. Emma’s success in London meant the gentlemen and hostesses welcomed her, but the implied hierarchy of diamond of the first water set her apart from many other debutantes. Lord willing, Emma would make more friends soon, so she could save these talks for a gaggle of giggling ladies. And yes, Miss Clementine Waters’s jealousy of Emma’s success this evening had been obvious to everyone there.

  “Roxbury has an unsavory reputation with the ladies that would make our father proud. As to shoulders—” Calvin shook his head, not quite believing he’d given in to this conversation. “I can see why you’d find them impressive. But you must remember I spend a lot of time with Amesbury. Everyone else is tiny by comparison. My metric is significantly skewed.” He sighed and closed his eyes.

  “True. That man is as big as a barn. Trust me, Lord Roxbury’s shoulders were delicious in that evening coat. I thought he’d pop a seam.” The rustle of skirts, followed by the light thud of her slippers hitting the floor, meant she’d taken her place beside him, sprawling with her stocking feet slung over the arms of the chair like the hoyden she truly was. Cal knew her so well, he could paint a picture in his mind based entirely on the sounds she made.

  He opened his eyes to level a look at her. “Roxbury runs with a fast crowd. I have heard nothing about him being on the lookout for a wife, so don’t set your heart in that direction. Enjoy the flirtation—a light flirtation—and the dances, but keep your eyes open. Be on your guard.”

  She pouted her bottom lip. “You sound like an overprotective papa.”

  “No, I sound like an overprotective brother, which is far worse. A papa would not know these men as peers. I’ve seen Roxbury drunk. I’ve heard how he speaks of women. Why not look towards someone kind and safe? Someone honest.”

  “Someone boring, you mean?”

  “What about Hardwick? He’s not boring, but he is a stand-up fellow. He’s honest. And he’ll come into his fortune soon. Earlier if he marries.” Cal tried to sound casual, but subterfuge had never been his strength.

  “The scrawny redhead you cart around with you like an accessory?” The horrified scrunched-up face was not a pleasant look on her. “I hardly think I need to set my sights as low as that. You must be desperate for me to not encourage Roxbury if you’re pushing me towards Mr. Hardwick.” She studied Cal until he grew uncomfortable. That searching look could pull secrets from a dead man. “Have you already said something to Hardwick? Are you playing matchmaker, brother mine?”

  Cal refused to meet her eyes. The joking offer he’d made to Puppy earlier in the evening lingered in his mind.

  “You have, haven’t you? Oh, you beast! What did he say?” She would relish the failure of Cal’s attempt at pairing her off with someone who wouldn’t hurt her the way their parents had repeatedly hurt each other.

  “Refused the whole plan, then emptied my flask and left me alone to deal with you.”

  “Maybe I could like him after all,” she wheezed through a belly laugh.

  A knock on the library’s door proved a welcome interruption. “Come in!”

  Higgins entered with a note on the silver salver. “A message from Mr. Hardwick, my lord. One of his urchins delivered it but did not wait for a reply.”

  Odd. The street kids knew if they waited for an answer, they’d collect payment for the reply. The Puppy hoarded his salary like a dragon clinging to gold, but he loved sharing coin with the children in the neighborhood of that hovel he rented. They came in handy when Cal sent Puppy digging around London in search of information. Children witnessed far more than people realized. That this one hadn’t darted around to the kitchen to wait while they begged treats from Cook meant no reply was expected.

  Emma’s brows knit. “Is everything all right?”

  The note was brief and to the point. Very Adam.

  “He’s going home to Northumberland. The vicar in his village—essentially the only decent father figure he has—is not doing well. Adam leaves on the early mail coach.”

  “Northumberland? He might as well ride to the moon. Why take the mail when he can borrow one of our carriages? I’m sure you would have offered,” she said.

  “Because he’s a stubborn mule. Refuses to accept help most of the time and gets huffy when I offer. He won’t even take a room here as part of his employment. Claims he has everything he needs in that drafty single room he rents.”

  “Then I wish him safe travels. It will be a while before you can continue your misguided matchmaking. That’s something, at least.”

  Cal folded the note, with its neat, loopy penmanship, then tucked it into a pocket. “I’m going to bed, brat. I suggest you do the same. And stay out of my brandy.”

  Chapter Two

  They say time marches on, but when it marched through Northumberland, it must have bypassed the village of Warford to sow seeds of change elsewhere. The dirt road that ran through town with the pub at one end and the church marking the far boundary was as rutted as it had always been. No new buildings pushed those boundaries farther, and on the streets the same signs hung—nothing called attention to a fresh business venture.

  She adjusted the satchel she’d packed for the journey, and stepped back to avoid the carriage wheels as the coach pulled away. It was odd to move, assume an entirely new life, and return to find that the only thing changed was her.

  About three miles beyond the village stood the cold, solid stone house where the Hardwick twins had lived in misery for five years after their parents died. The small manor squatted on the land, as unyielding and lacking in whimsy as their uncle.

  Memories of their time with their parents were warm, centered on their small family’s contented life in the country. After the reading of their parents’ will, the children had arrived on Milton’s doorstep, and the memories of their time there were decidedly darker.

  For children reeling from the loss of their parents and their comfortable life, there’d been one haven in the town. The vicar and his son had become a small pocket of normalcy, affection, and acceptance when everything else was topsy-turvy. Milton had refused to pay for a governess, so the twins had attended lessons with the other village children at the vicarage until Adam was old enough to be sent away to school.

  Vicar Arcott had helmed the church’s pulpit, confronting sinners and comforting parishioners, for as long as anyone could remember. But during those hours of lessons, it had been his steady demeanor, calming voice, and gentle affection for all the children that had made her feel safe when everything else seemed tumultuous.

  John, the vicar’s son, had become a dear friend and readily accepted that the twins were a team. Where one went, the other followed.

  The small vicarage stood behind the stone church that dated from the Norman times, content to exist in the shadow of the Lord’s house as the centuries slowly passed. The blue paint on the door faded in a diagonal line where the sun hit it each day before continuing on to shine through the stained-glass window of the church.

  Beyond the vicarage lay the village graveyard. In the third row, fourth from the end, a simple headstone read “Ophelia Hardwick 1795–1808.” John had written that he’d planted and groomed a small patch of flowers on the grave. Spring came later in these parts, but tiny petals would just be unfurling. A splash of cheerful color in a place of loss.

  The wind whipped, flinging mist like needles and threatening to dislodge the hat Cal had passed along last week. A carriage rumbled by, and she tilted her face down toward the ground so no one could identify the lone figure standing before the church.

  John opened the door to the vicarage, his familiar face creased with lines of stress and the grief one feels when they know loss is imminent. He sagged against the wood frame. “Oh, thank God, Phee. He’s
been asking for you for days.”

  Although the relief soaking John’s voice was a welcome balm of familiarity, the name felt like a slap. “Don’t call me that.” A furtive look over her shoulder showed the surrounding area free of lurkers.

  After eleven years, Ophelia knew the first rule in assuming someone else’s identity was to be them in every possible way. The endeavor required complete commitment—all or nothing. Think like them, dress like them, talk like them. If she tried to keep the real her alive in any way, this would fail. She must be Adam. Most days she felt more like her brother than herself.

  Ophelia, the adolescent girl she used to be and the woman she would become, lived in a tiny iron box in the recesses of her mind, under piles of chains and locks. Phee allowed herself to think of the future only under very specific circumstances. And standing on the doorstep of the vicarage with her gravestone only a few yards away was neither the time nor the place.

  “I am Adam. Do not forget it when we are in public.”

  “Public? You’re practically in the door already.” John rolled his eyes but stepped aside for her to enter.

  When she shouldered past him, Phee threw a brotherly elbow to his gut. “Practically in the door is not actually in the door. Let’s get inside before someone hears you.”

  “Is that her?” came a warbled question from the next room.

  “Yes, Father,” John called. “We will be there in a moment.” He turned to Phee, all traces of teasing gone. “You need to prepare yourself. He isn’t well. Every morning I expect him to simply not wake. He’s weak and only a fraction of the man he used to be. Physically, at least. Mentally, he’s still sharp, thank God.”

  Emaciation and illness were not much of a shock after years of living in London’s poorer neighborhoods. Here in the villages of Northumberland, neighbors relied on one another to help when needed. While people were people, no matter where she roamed, Phee noticed in the city that after a certain point the poor—and often the sick or those who would never recover from the war—became invisible to the stronger masses, who frequently weren’t even willing to make eye contact. Like ghosts, the stick figures of the poor drifted among the living, waiting to cross over.

  To think of Vicar Arcott in such a way felt wrong on every level, but she nodded and braced herself. John’s father, while not the largest man in the room, always made up for his lack of physical stature with a booming voice and an all-encompassing smile. Once he opened his mouth or caught you in his intelligent gaze, he no longer seemed like an average man.

  Wisdom was his first language, and kindness his second. Although he’d been present for only five years of her childhood, he’d been a father figure to her, reinforcing in her young mind that good people still existed. That not every adult male manipulated others with his position or used words as weapons.

  In the vicar’s room, open curtains welcomed what meager light the day’s sun offered, while an oil lamp next to the narrow bed filled in the remaining shadows. Vicar Arcott’s pallor seemed gray, and the blue eyes that always held kindness and unconditional love for her now had a watery, blurred quality to them, as if on the edge of tears.

  A sickroom often had a certain scent—the sweet syrup of medicine combined with a body fighting disease or the ravages of time. Being a kind man, the best she’d ever known, he should smell like butterscotch candies and sandalwood shaving soap. Not like this.

  She sat on the chair beside the bed, and John perched on a stool at his father’s feet. Her hand found Vicar Arcott’s on the faded quilt, and with a movement that looked to take more effort than it should, he rested his other hand on top, like they’d done a thousand times before. The last time she’d seen him, his fingers hadn’t been this bony. But then, it had been a year. No, nearly two.

  “You’re too thin, sweetheart. Don’t they have food in London?” Arcott’s reedy voice would never carry from the pulpit to the vestibule these days.

  “I don’t need much.” Encroaching tears strangled the forced cheer.

  The effort of speaking made Arcott close his eyes, although he kept his face turned toward her. “That uncle of yours is still providing for you? There’s a rumor around the village that Milton had several large investments fail. He’s fired most of his staff in the name of economizing.”

  As usual, the mention of her uncle made a ball of unease bunch in her gut. “We all know he has never been generous.” Or loving, or warm, or kind to small animals—let alone young children left under his care. That he’d become the guardian of her and her brother spoke more to their lack of living relatives than to a preference on her parents’ part. At least, she hoped so, since no one in their right mind would give Uncle Milton children on purpose. Economizing might mean Milton lived without dipping into her modest fortune—or it could mean he’d run through not only his money but her parents’ as well. And until her birthday, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  The vicar’s chuckle and John’s snort told their own story. There was no love lost between Milton and anyone who’d made his acquaintance outside the realm of his business holdings.

  “I get by. I’ve taken a position as a land steward. The job isn’t like anything I expected. I handle a lot of personal errands and a few bits of correspondence.” The hardest part of the job revolved around making sure no one caught her staring at her employer. It was impossible not to stare. If he’d been merely gorgeous, admiring him would have been an unemotional, detached experience. Like appreciating a beautiful painting or a finely built horse.

  But given his humor and sharp mind, her objectivity disappeared. Some days the furtive glances at her employer and the response Cal triggered in her body were what kept her from forgetting she wasn’t actually her brother.

  “A steward? Where is the land?” John asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

  “A hundred acres of forest a few hours from here, actually. Cal claims I got the job because I am familiar with the area and know the mentality of the people.” In reality, her time was usually spent canvassing the areas beyond the safety of Mayfair, using her network of street urchins to gather information on investors for Cal’s extensive financial holdings. The man was thorough with his research and determined to keep his businesses honest. If an investor’s name came with a bad report, Cal cut all ties and didn’t look back.

  “Cal, is it?” John’s question held an edge. Phee straightened in her seat but kept her hand with the vicar’s, avoiding putting pressure on his gnarled knuckle joints.

  “Yes, Calvin, Earl of Carlyle. He’s become a friend. A godsend in many ways.”

  “How did you manage to get tangled up with an earl?” John scoffed.

  “I was working at a secondhand clothing stall, and a dissatisfied customer was making a fuss. It drew a crowd, so the owner of the stall felt like he had to make an example of me. Sacked me on the spot, even though it wasn’t my fault. Cal and his friend Lord Amesbury witnessed it all.” Phee smiled at the memory of the two handsome aristocrats insisting the stall owner pay her wages before they took her to a coffeehouse.

  “They took me out for a cup of coffee, and Cal sort of adopted me like some stray kitten they’d rescued from a sack by the river. Lord Amesbury says Cal did much the same with him.” Only, Amesbury had been floundering in society and well on his way to ruining himself when Cal swooped in.

  “Oh, so fancy, with your aristocrat friends,” John teased, but his tone made her feel defensive.

  “They’re good men. Because of Cal, I can eat. And he passes along clothing so I don’t have to worry about a tailor. I alter everything myself.”

  “Good to see one of your wifely skills is coming in handy,” John said. There could be no mistaking the utter lack of teasing.

  Phee shot him a look at the same time Arcott barked with surprising strength, “That was uncalled for. Apologize.”

  “Sorry, Phee,” John mumbled to his clasped hands.

  “If your apology isn’t sincere, the
n I have no use for it. Do we need to discuss something, John? Vicar, I hate to bring tension to your bedside. We can take this outside.”

  Vicar Arcott tightened his grip. “Stay. You two have always bickered. It’s a comfort to hear you together again, as it should be. John, ask her.”

  “Ask me what?” She wasn’t feeling particularly generous toward John at the moment. Verbal jabs were not the way into her good graces, no matter how long-standing their friendship.

  Sighing, John stood reluctantly from his stool. Gripping only the tips of her fingers, he said, “Ophelia Hardwick, would you do me the honor—”

  Phee jerked away, sending her chair clattering behind her. “Hell no! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Oh, thank God.” John sank onto his seat. People usually reserved that amount of relief for escaping a death sentence.

  An urge to kick the stool out from under him nearly overwhelmed her. Instead, Phee righted her own chair and glowered at the supine man in the bed. “Did you encourage this?”

  “I have to make this right, Ophelia. God is calling me home soon. How can I rest in peace if you aren’t safe? You’re like a daughter to me.” A single tear trailed over Arcott’s papery cheek, and the fight drained out of her.

  “You’ve already made things right by me, Vicar. Don’t you see? I wouldn’t be here, alive and well, if it weren’t for you.”

  “We erected a lie on consecrated ground. Every time I pass Adam’s headstone with your name, I apologize to him and the Lord. But I can’t apologize enough, can I?”

  Guilt pounded at her with cruel fists, but that was her burden to bear, not the vicar’s. The man may have salvaged some good from the situation, but she’d caused it to begin with. Phee wiped a second tear from the old man’s cheek. “No boy of thirteen should die. It’s not fair. He drowned, and there’s nothing we can do about that. Your quick thinking saved me from a living hell. Not only the one I lived with Uncle Milton but also the one he’d arranged for me. Everything you did—lending the weight of your influence to hurry the burial, guarding Adam so the doctor didn’t examine him naked, and then keeping my secret—all that worked for the greater good. If not for your tutelage, I never could have returned to boarding school as my brother and kept up. And at the end of the year, when I turn twenty-five and Uncle has to hand over my inheritance, I will have the means to start over somewhere else as a woman. America, or the Continent. Somewhere. You say you can’t apologize enough, but I can’t thank you enough.” A new year, with a new life and a new name in a new country.