West End Earl

by Bethany Bennett

  “Roxbury’s attention to Emma doesn’t sit right. I can’t believe his intentions are honorable.” Worry nagged at him. Emma would be safe enough in an open carriage with a maid in tow, but the social restrictions didn’t seem like enough when applied to his baby sister and a rotter like Roxbury.

  “Honorable intentions seem in short supply with that one,” Adam agreed.

  A maid entered with a rolling cart piled high with coffee, cream, and sugar. Cook had a soft spot for Adam and shared Cal’s determination to fatten the lad, as shown by a stack of sandwiches that could feed five men.

  The friends ate in silence for long moments while they drank coffee in front of the empty grate. The day was too warm for a fire and would only get warmer. Early summer in the city meant an odd mix of gorgeous blooming flowers, greenery, and the scent of filth baking on the streets and in the Thames.

  Here in the dim cool of the library, thick velvet curtains muted the sun. Shelves of books and foil-pressed wallpaper created the illusion that those streets were a world away. The silence grew.

  “Are you falling asleep over there, Puppy?”

  “Almost. Those days of travel took it out of me. I can’t seem to sleep enough,” came the drowsy reply.

  “Finally, a sign that you’re getting old.”

  “The coffee should wake me up in a few minutes. I’ll ask after the Wilhelmina. If she went down, there will be talk. But we both know the ship could have simply run into weather.”

  “Agreed. Let’s hope for the best. I received three letters from investors this week and need to be prepared for every event, though.” Another letter sat behind him on his desk, and Cal was fairly certain it pertained to the same topic. When ventures paid out, everyone was happy. But one constant in finance—whether playing on the Exchange or dabbling in trade—investments carried risk. Like any game of chance, the risk was part of the fun but could be the ruin of a man. And Eastly had invested more heavily than Cal had advised.

  “Maybe take a nap when you return. There’s a room upstairs at the ready for the day you quit that hovel you rent and decide to embrace creature comforts.”

  “I’m not having that conversation again. I’ll go home after the docks, then see you bright and early tomorrow.”

  Cal sighed. When God had created this particular Adam, he’d crammed a lot of stubbornness into such a skinny package. “Fine. Be careful on the way home.”

  Chapter Four

  It was official. Calvin wanted to throw Roxbury into the Thames just so he could enjoy his coffee and toast in peace.

  Cal had called on the bounder four different times and each time had been told at the door that he wasn’t home. He’d looked for him at the club but come up empty. Roxbury always seemed to show up and call on Emma when Cal was out of the house, so he’d managed to take Emma for a drive several times over the last few weeks. When Cal instructed the servants to turn the man away, Emma bumped into Roxbury while out shopping, or at the museum with her Saint Albans friends. There was no escaping it—Cal was being outmaneuvered.

  With such focused attention from Roxbury, everyone suspected an offer would be imminent.

  Like hell. If there were even the slightest chance the man’s intentions toward Emma were honorable, Cal might wish them happy. But he’d bet the pot of Cook’s delicious strawberry jam in his hand that Roxbury was only toying with Emma. Entirely unacceptable.

  The talk had to happen today. Even if he needed to run the man to ground like a fox, Cal would finally have a one-on-one discussion with the reprobate. Then perhaps he wouldn’t have to sit at breakfast enduring yet another monologue on Roxbury’s charms.

  Reaching the end of his patience, Cal threw his serviette onto the table and grabbed his cup. “Excuse me.”

  Coffee in hand, he marched down the hall, past the library, and through the front doors and kept walking across a narrow lane to the residence of his best friend Ethan and his wife, Lottie. Dawson, their butler, would be horrified if he simply went inside, so Cal knocked, then took a sip of his steaming coffee while he waited. The street wasn’t too busy yet, but a man pushing a cart of wooden crates gave Cal a questioning look as he walked by.

  Because of the exceptionally long term of Parliament, the newlyweds had spent more time in Town this year. Typically, Lord and Lady Amesbury preferred the country, doing whatever country dwellers did. Something to do with sheep and hops—that was what he’d say if Ethan asked him to explain the workings of their estate. Cal knew damn well Woodrest crafted delicious ale and would eventually sell to the finest houses in London.

  Building a production and retail endeavor from the ground up with Ethan had been a unique challenge. Their efforts were looking to pay off nicely as long as this year’s crop yielded the projected harvest. Not that Cal ever willingly or enthusiastically discussed such things. Ethan and Lottie could go on and on about crop rotation and not even notice that Cal was on the verge of dying of boredom. That was why he handled the business side of things—because playing in the dirt sounded awful.

  Cal took another sip. Dawson’s knees must hurt today. That would explain the wait.

  Another moment passed before Dawson opened the door and stepped aside. The butler was as ancient as Methuselah, with jowls that hung from his face as if exhausted from years of clinging to the sharp edges of his facial structure. “My lord and lady are in the breakfast room,” he said.

  “Thank you, Dawson.”

  A floral arrangement on the slim table by the door caught his eye. Little touches like that told everyone that this home belonged to a lady who cared about the details. Without Lottie, Ethan would have been content to let the place exist as a vast echoing marble chamber with a random distribution of half-read books piled on every available surface.

  The smell of breakfast led Cal to the sunny room where the pair preferred to start the day. Pushing through the wooden door, he immediately felt better. No one here would rhapsodize about damned Roxbury’s shoulders.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Lady Amesbury gave him a wave, and Ethan jerked his head toward the sideboard, where platters of breakfast options lay, making a silent offer.

  Moments like this reminded him that his family was pretty brilliant. They didn’t share blood, but they would do anything for each other.

  Cal loaded a plate with all his favorites and topped off his coffee. He might be a disgrace as an Englishman, preferring coffee over tea—and Ethan assured him regularly of this—but they always had coffee on hand for Cal during breakfast. Sometimes he smelled coffee on Dawson’s breath, so he was fairly certain he wasn’t the only one who appreciated the black nectar of life.

  “Are the Lords not meeting today?” Cal asked.

  Ethan took his role in the House of Lords seriously, although he wasn’t as politically active as some. Calvin assumed his seat in the House only when he had nothing better to do. Which admittedly wasn’t often.

  “I’m not going tae sit through whatever Whitfield is goin’ on about today. Besides, I was, er, detained longer than expected before breakfast.” Ethan grinned and Lottie smirked, obviously proud of herself. “Did you have a particular reason for stoppin’ by, or are you just here tae eat my sausage and kippers?”

  “Your bacon, actually. I’ll leave your sausage for your wife to enjoy.” Grinning at the choked laughter from Lottie, Cal sat across from them and swallowed a hearty bite before continuing. “I need to talk about my sister, otherwise I may not survive her Season. Or she may not survive. Lord Roxbury might not make it out either. Regardless, one of us will have to go. I’m going to hunt him down this afternoon and finally talk to the man. He’s raising expectations, and anyone with a brain knows Roxbury isn’t the marrying kind.” Maybe Emma liked a challenge.

  Fine, he might be indulging in a bit of dramatics. Thankfully, his companions didn’t comment on that. Lottie bit her lip as she smeared strawberry preserves on a piece of toast. Ethan shook his head and grinned over at his wife
, then leaned back in his chair. “The papers called her an Incomparable. A diamond, even. The lass has her pick of anyone. What could possibly be the matter?”

  God, their bacon really was amazing. Amidst his general annoyance with life at the moment, the salty perfection stood out as a bright spot. “My cook needs to talk to your cook and discuss this bacon. It has to be something in the curing process they do differently. As to Emma—she could choose anyone. So why the bloody hell is she so focused on Roxbury?”

  Lottie grimaced in sympathy. “Some women are drawn in by pretty charmers.”

  “Can’t she see beyond the face? He’s a handsome fellow, I’ll grant you that. But there has to be more to a man than appealing shoulders.”

  Cal tried not to roll his eyes when Lottie stared at Ethan’s impressively wide shoulders and her expression evolved into a heated look more appropriate for their bedroom.

  The two of them were adorable in their own twisted way. As sentimental as it sounded, Cal supposed love made all the difference. His parents hadn’t exhibited the concept of love—not with each other at any rate. If he could find what Ethan shared with Lottie, he might consider the institution of marriage.

  Preening like a peacock, Ethan winked at his wife before returning to the topic at hand. “Will you think anyone is good enough for Emma?”

  “I offered Puppy two hundred pounds to marry her and keep his hands to himself. But his morals are too firmly entrenched, I fear. He laughed at me, then drank my liquor and left.”

  The couple snickered. Lottie said, “I like Adam. He’s young, but he has kind eyes.”

  Pushing the now-empty plate aside, Cal cradled the coffee cup between his hands and tried to relax his shoulders from where they’d crept up near his ears. “Young, but he’s a solid fellow. We’re taking Emma to Vauxhall tonight, if you’d like to come along.”

  The couple exchanged a look, then Lottie nodded. “Let’s dine here first. Their portions are appallingly small.”

  Ethan sighed. “Aye. Elf food and fireworks, it is.”

  “Perfect.” Cal refilled his cup from the silver carafe and rose. “With that to look forward to, I’m afraid I need to go. My schedule is full. I’m due at the tailor’s in a bit, but first I have to deal with Roxbury. Which is sure to be a fun time. On top of that, Father requested I call. Let’s all hope he hasn’t spawned another illegitimate child.”

  * * *

  A short drive later, the butler at the club informed him that Lord Roxbury had left for home after gaming all night.

  Cal’s carriage pulled up three doors down from Roxbury’s tidy residence. He called up to his coachman, “Hobby, have someone check the mews behind the house. Make sure his lordship is home.”

  Ten minutes later the young tiger, Walter, returned, slightly out of breath. “He arrived about a quarter hour ago, your lordship.”

  “Very good. Circle the square. I won’t be long.”

  Cal whistled a cheerful tune as he made his way down the pavement and climbed the steps to the town house. The butler answered his knock but didn’t bother glancing at Cal’s card this time before stating that Lord Roxbury wasn’t at home.

  Donning his most charming smile, Cal tipped his hat brim at a rakish angle with one finger. “Then you won’t mind if I wait inside. Roxbury is expecting me,” he lied.

  “I’m afraid, milord, that won’t be poss—”

  Cal missed the rest as he brushed past the butler and strode up the staircase to where he assumed the family rooms were. Behind him, the retainer gawked, and Cal waved a hand over his shoulder. “I’ll tell him I overpowered you. This will only take a moment.”

  A maid in the hallway on the second floor pointed the way to the master’s rooms. Cal gave a cursory knock on the door, then walked in.

  “Your butler is sputtering in the front hall, cursing my name, and will probably send a burly footman to drag me away posthaste, so let’s make this quick, shall we?” Cal kicked the door closed behind him, then turned the key in the lock to buy him a few extra minutes in case his prediction wasn’t far off.

  “What the devil do you want, Carlyle?” Roxbury’s jaw was rough with late-night bristles, his eyes were red-rimmed, and a pungent wave of alcohol and perfume—thankfully, not Emma’s preferred scent—wafted across the room when he spoke.

  Wincing, Cal said, “You look like hell, man.”

  Roxbury shrugged. “I’ll be right as rain once I sleep. I repeat, what do you want?”

  “I need to know your intentions regarding my sister.”

  The other man chuckled, which turned into a full-on guffaw while he shrugged out of his evening coat. “Did she put you up to this? Damn, dance with a chit a few times and they hear wedding bells.”

  A glassy calm settled over Cal, not unlike the smooth surface of a peaceful loch hiding a sea serpent in its depths. “My sister’s emotions aren’t a laughing matter. But I fear you’re toying with them, and that is not something I will stand for.”

  “Emma doesn’t have any such reservations. In fact, she’s been most…eager to get to know me.” Roxbury smirked as he unwound his limp cravat and dropped it on the floor, then started on his waistcoat buttons.

  At the implication, Cal’s hands clenched, but nothing would be solved if he blackened the man’s eye. Although it would be bloody satisfying.

  “You won’t speak of Emma that way. Not now, not ever. Are we clear? You obviously don’t have honorable intentions, so your involvement with her ends now. No more rides in the park. No more dances. If she approaches you, you’ll greet her civilly, then walk away.” Such treatment would break her heart in the short term but save her future pain. It would be agonizing to witness, but Cal couldn’t stand idly by while she wasted her debut Season on a scoundrel like the sot before him.

  “You want me gone?” Roxbury’s waistcoat joined the pile of clothing on the floor, and for a moment, Cal pitied the man’s valet. Cal’s manservant, Kingston, would make his life hell if Cal dared disrespect his clothing like that. In his shirtsleeves, Roxbury sauntered toward him.

  “She deserves better than you. If you’re not planning to marry her, then you need to leave her alone.”

  Roxbury seemed to consider that, but his smirk didn’t bode well for the conversation. “Two thousand pounds.”

  Cal cocked his head. “I beg your pardon. You expect me to pay you to do the right thing? We are talking about protecting a young lady from a good family. The daughter of a marquess.”

  Roxbury untucked his shirt from his trousers. “You want me to leave your precious sister alone? Two thousand pounds. For that, I’ll abandon the field to a suitably pasty fellow of your choosing.”

  Crossing his arms to appear casual as he leaned against the door, Cal weighed his options. Roxbury had no honorable intentions toward Emma, and likely no honor in general. If paying him off was the quickest way to end the situation, then so be it. The whole business turned his stomach, but in the end, this was similar to paying a spurned and dissatisfied mistress, or a pregnant maid—and God knew he’d done that for Eastly enough times. “For two thousand pounds you’ll agree to stop your pursuit of Emma?”

  “Quibble about it, and the price goes up,” Roxbury said. “Besides, it’s not as if passing around that Carlyle fortune is new for you. How many women have you paid to keep quiet after your father’s done with them? This is no different, really. But I didn’t have to see the marquess’s mini member to get my lump sum. Two thousand, delivered today. Or I’ll take a check.”

  A knock at the door behind his shoulder made Cal glance at the lock. The cavalry had arrived.

  “I’ll write a check now and have it done with. Call off your dogs while I use your inkwell.” A small desk against the wall held a messy pile of papers, four empty wine bottles, and an inkpot and pen. The quill nub could have used a good sharpening with a penknife, but it wasn’t Cal’s job to maintain this man’s writing tools. Shaking his head at the clutter and disarray, Cal pulled his chec
ks from his pocket and scratched out the information required to draft such a large sum.

  At the door, a bare-chested Roxbury told whoever was in the hall, “He’s here to pay a debt. You can escort him out in a moment.”

  Signing his name with sharp strokes, Cal curled his lip. “There. Don’t smudge the ink, for I won’t be writing you another.” He handed the paper to Roxbury on his way out the door.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” the bastard said, then closed the door.

  The footman looked more like a boxer, with the kind of nose that had clearly been broken more than once and a brow so bisected by scars, the hair had given up any attempt to grow. With a jerk of his head, the servant motioned for Cal to walk ahead, escorting him from the home in threatening silence.

  But it was done. Emma was safe from one of London’s many scoundrels. Thousands more to be on the lookout for, but that was a problem for another day.

  There was only one way to salvage the morning—a visit to Bond Street.

  A half hour later, Cal tugged the bottom of his new waistcoat down so it fell exactly where breeches met shirt, then turned in the mirror to inspect the seamlines. Perfectly straight without a pucker or unwanted wrinkle in sight.

  “Well done, Carter. Beautiful fit as always.”

  “Thank you, milord. It’s always a pleasure to dress someone of your refined tastes.”

  Cal shot him an amused look. “Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think? You’re just relieved it’s not a pair of trousers so I can’t make my usual dangling-cock jokes.”

  Carter, predictably, bit his lip against a smile in an effort to keep his professional demeanor. It had become a sort of game between them, with Cal free to be as outrageous as he pleased, and Carter trying his damnedest to keep a straight face.

  On top of that, the man really was an exceptional tailor.

  “Now the coat, milord?”

  The dark-green wool settled over his shoulders like a hug. “That will do nicely. You were right about the onyx buttons. They highlight the fine weave of the fabric without distracting from the lines.”