West End Earl

by Bethany Bennett

  Emma must have misinterpreted her silence, because she pushed the topic. “Isn’t that the point? My baby gets a legal father, and you finally live as a woman.”

  The details of the plan essentially boiled down to what most of her plans over the years had—run and start over elsewhere. Present herself to new acquaintances as if the new lie were truth and wait for the lie to feel real. Phee sighed, exhaustion pulling at her—the kind of tiredness that a nap wouldn’t fix. Aches were her constant companions these days, along with that shattered feeling, as if her emotions were shards of glass rattling together, chipping at each other and doing no good except to cause more damage. She turned to Emma.

  “Not to sound mercenary, but we need all the money in the bank first. Sums of this size take time, and the will’s paperwork must be processed properly. Then we can move and enact the next stage of the plan.”

  Emma nodded. “I still think you should choose a gown or two when I get mine.”

  “Fine.” Phee rolled her eyes. “I’ll see what they have on hand. Something made for a particularly tall, flat-chested child, maybe.”

  “The height will be the hardest element,” Emma said. “Your legs are miles long, aren’t they? I’m quite jealous of that.”

  Phee shot her a dubious look.

  “I’m serious. You have these endless, graceful limbs. Everything about me is short. Soon I’ll be as round as I am tall. I understand you may not have a lot of experience with extolling your wiles.” Emma’s sarcasm rang clear and made Phee snort despite the serious subject. “But you’re unique. Long and lean, like a racehorse. And we know how men adore those.”

  Phee pressed her palms to heated cheeks. “Is this what having girlfriends is like? We talk about our bodies and dresses and men in far too intimate detail?”

  “Never fear that I’ll press for intimate details about the men in your life.” Emma shuddered and curled her lip. “There are things I don’t want to know about my brother. Besides, I am not ready to make nice yet—he treated you abominably and deserves to suffer. But essentially, yes. Few topics are off limits. If it makes you more comfortable, I can belch and scratch myself like a man. Or throw up in another handy piece of porcelain. My body is a never-ending delight of bodily functions these days.”

  Phee grinned. The pregnancy sickness had been the great leveler for Emma. A bit of humility did the girl some good, but Phee wouldn’t say so aloud. Besides, Emma had already figured it out.

  Girding her proverbial loins, Phee stood and smoothed her turquoise damask silk waistcoat. “How about we visit the modiste now?”

  “You mean, before my brother returns from his ride, and you two stare at each other across the dining table like a couple ninnies?”

  “Precisely.”

  * * *

  Cal stepped aside to allow another footman, burdened with a trunk, access to the line of carriages waiting in the street.

  Neighbors all around them suddenly seemed to feel a need for fresh air as one by one, doors opened and people wandered out for a curiously sloth-like promenade along the street. Out of sheer perversity, Cal made eye contact and called out a cheerful greeting to every one of them. Yes, he wanted to say. I see you. You aren’t as sly as you believe. And your fascination with my sister and my lover moving out of the house is not subtle.

  This was hell. Over the last few weeks, Phee wouldn’t look at him for longer than a moment or two, and Emma hadn’t spoken to Cal about anything of importance since her wedding day. Dinners were torturous hours of small talk and cutting silence.

  He tamped down the frustration before it could boil over and lead him to snap at the curious bystanders. These neighbors had no way of knowing it was his lover leaving him. They’d stare harder if they knew Phee had once warmed his bed and stolen his heart and that Emma was pregnant.

  Yet against all odds, somehow the secrets remained safe. No one knew—so no one acknowledged his pain, and Cal couldn’t help resenting that. Which was illogical. Especially when he tried so hard all the damn time to maintain privacy.

  Standing on the pavement with the sun warming his uncovered head, it occurred to him that he witnessed everyone else’s problems and ultimately found the solutions for them. But no one witnessed his messes. No one handled his problems. The two people who knew the details of this situation were overseeing the last stages of loading these carriages so they could leave.

  Not that Cal necessarily wanted to live under the same roof as Phee. Fine, a masochistic part of him did. Because even if she hated him, at least she would be safe while she hated him. Seeing her caused a physical pain in his chest, and yet he ached for that moment when she appeared. Cal drank her in, savoring the sight because he knew he’d have mere seconds to do so.

  As if on cue, Phee’s voice drifted through the doorway, and Cal turned to steal a look.

  “Thank you, Nelson. This trunk stays with our carriage, not mixed with the rest of the luggage.”

  The throaty timbre of her voice managed to both soothe and rile him. Phee stepped out the door and hopped lightly down to the street level, ignoring Cal entirely. Her waistcoat was apple green today. One he’d ordered with her in mind and then feigned a distaste for once it arrived. In the weeks since they’d left for Lakeview, she hadn’t cut her hair, and the sun played with the fluff of curls, creating colors he didn’t think had names yet, because they existed only in her.

  Phee turned, caught him staring. These last few weeks, he’d made a habit of looking away, but now he didn’t. Not when there were precious few minutes left to soak her in. After a brief hesitation, Phee straightened her shoulders, as if preparing for some monumental task, then approached him with brisk strides. Cal stepped forward to meet her, but she stopped several feet away, out of reach in so many ways.

  “I know none of this is easy, but I need you to remember one thing. Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

  His confusion must be plain on his face, but instead of explaining, she turned and left him staring after her. Curse him as a dog, but he couldn’t resist enjoying the sway of her little heart-shaped arse as she left him wanting for the thousandth time in recent weeks.

  Sure, Phee had withheld knowledge of Emma’s pregnancy, but his indignation over that no longer felt so righteous. Not after he’d put her in the position of watching him play matchmaker to avoid marrying someone else—all because he hadn’t told his father to hang from the beginning. In fact, given his stellar track record for handling scandals, Cal had bungled things rather spectacularly. The accusation that he’d have handled it all differently if she’d still been Adam haunted him.

  Cal couldn’t miss the feeling of déjà vu. There were so many instances from his childhood when he’d stood helpless as his mother loaded the carriages, leaving pain and tears in her wake as she chased her happiness or fled another betrayal from her husband. Cal hadn’t been enough of a reason for her to stay, and the hopelessness beating at his chest suggested not much had changed.

  The emotion seemed to be his constant companion now. The pile of things he’d managed to ruin would crush an elephant at this point.

  Emma had made one awful choice after another, all under his oblivious nose. Only Phee had seen everything and recognized a problem. Cal hadn’t had a hand in protecting Emma or her reputation.

  Phee’s danger with Milton? Cal might have gotten her out of Town, but in the end, Phee had dealt with that too. All along, Phee had proved herself to be the best possible partner and friend to him, and he’d been too bullheaded to acknowledge when things weren’t well in hand.

  In the end, everything had gone to hell despite Cal’s best efforts. The baron had demanded payment. Rosehurst was done waiting.

  Everything was changing, and none of it for the better. The days when Cal and Adam could sit in the library drinking brandy and speaking honestly about problems were long gone. Phee’s quick mind and willingness to dive into solving a situation had been priceless, and he’d squandered it.
He missed his lover, but above all, Cal missed their friendship.

  And damn if Phee wasn’t the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, with her legs showcased in snug breeches and boots.

  A movement to his right interrupted his shameless ogling.

  Ethan arrived and surveyed the carefully orchestrated chaos with crossed arms. “Moving day, aye?”

  Cal tried to answer, but the words stuck until he cleared his throat. “Yes. Emma and…Adam are taking a wedding trip. They’ve picked some tiny village by the sea to settle in for the time being. Newlyweds and their privacy, you know.”

  The weight of Ethan’s gaze made the side of his face prickle, but Cal resolutely stared forward, refusing to look from the carriages, the trunks, and one redhead who directed it all.

  “I don’ understand all of what’s happening here. But you look like you need a friend. You dine with us tonight,” Ethan said.

  “I don’t think—”

  “What part of that sounded like a choice?” Ethan interrupted.

  Cal gave a huff of weak laughter. “Fine. I’ll be lousy company. You can’t say you weren’t warned.”

  Ethan clapped a hand on Cal’s shoulder. “I’ll tell Lottie tae use the old china so I can throw things at your hard head if you get out of hand.”

  The first genuine smile of the day crossed Cal’s face. “Fine.” Tonight he’d dine and mope. And tomorrow he had an appointment with Eastly to discuss Rosehurst and his daughter.

  Miss Cuthbert had made friends at the house party but had not enticed a lover. The party hadn’t been a total matchmaking failure. As of this week, a few other women at the party were engaged. Miss Lillian Fitzwilliam and Lord Hornsby’s whirlwind romance was the talk of society. And Miss Georgina had somehow landed Gaffney. How the hell that had happened, Cal had no idea. He’d gently quizzed Gaffney during their meetings at Lakeview, but his grace hadn’t been forthcoming with personal information. The woman was mousy, quiet, and apparently irresistible to the young duke. And of course, the whole ton knew about Emma’s marriage to the unlikely Adam Hardwick.

  Cal had failed. Spectacularly. He’d failed Emma. He’d failed Violet. But most of all, he’d failed Phee.

  In every way. No wonder she showed no signs of forgiving him anytime soon.

  On the street, Phee pointed toward a carriage, saying something to Nelson. The sun in her hair had been so beautiful he’d failed to notice the shadows under her eyes. The hollows beneath her cheekbones were carved deeper, making her appear sharp and gaunt, but highlighted her ridiculously pouty lips. God, he missed her.

  Beside the carriage, Nelson said something that made her smile, and Cal lost his breath.

  Nodding a goodbye to Ethan, he fixed a neutral expression on his face and retreated inside. The house would be empty soon, and being alone suddenly seemed like the worst possible punishment.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  You grew up here?” Emma’s face pressed against the glass of the carriage window, making her words echo with a tinny quality.

  “Near here, yes. The manor house is down that lane and then through the woods, past the pond. According to Nelson, Milton is in London. Or he was as of two weeks ago. So we should be safe to visit Vicar Arcott, then leave Warford before anyone knows we’re here.” The familiar houses of the village appeared, then disappeared in succession outside her window. After the first night on the road, they’d broken off from the caravan of carriages and sent the others on toward their rented house in Olread Cove, while she and Emma had continued to Northumberland. Not only was the whole caravan of luggage not needed in Warford, but there was zero chance of such a spectacle being overlooked in the village. One carriage was far more stealthy, all things considered.

  In John’s last letter he’d claimed Vicar Arcott was weak but continued to improve, despite all odds. John also reported his engagement to Daisy, the baker’s daughter.

  “They’re not expecting us, but I don’t think we need to stay long,” Phee said.

  Finally, the church with its tidy graveyard and snug vicarage came into view.

  Vicar Arcott himself answered their knock. In that moment, she was a little girl again, faced with the one adult who always had a hug for her. He opened the door, stood shocked for a heartbeat, then opened his arms, as he always had.

  “You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you up and walking again,” Phee said into his chest. He was still frail and likely always would be. Her arms easily wrapped around his torso. But saints be praised, he stood there under his own strength.

  “Darling girl, you look tired. I didn’t expect you.” Arcott pulled away enough to examine her face with a concerned frown. Then he looked over her shoulder. “And you brought a friend.”

  Phee turned to Emma. “This is Lady Emma Carlyle, now Lady Emma Hardwick.” She glanced at Arcott. “She knows everything, but the staff does not.”

  Vicar Arcott eyed them, then the fine traveling carriage. “You’d best come inside,” he said in a low voice.

  Phee directed the coachman and groom to where they could water and rest the horses behind the vicarage, then sent them on to the tavern in the village for their supper.

  Inside, the cottage remained exactly as she remembered it. Gratitude that she could stand here one more time, when she’d been so sure the visit in May would be her last, made tears pool. For once they were happy ones. Turning to Emma, she said, “This is the closest I have to a home. I learned my sums and my letters at that table.” She pointed to the scarred wood where a plate and glass remained from the vicar’s last meal, with a dark cloth serviette folded neatly beside them.

  Emma’s eyes were wide as she took in everything. It was a far cry from the London townhome on Hill Street. The entire house would fit inside Emma’s bedchamber, but Phee couldn’t be prouder to share it with her.

  “This is where I came from. And the vicar is the finest man you’ll ever meet.” Phee hugged the older man with one arm around his waist, overwhelmed at seeing him again.

  “Are you hungry? Mrs. Courtland left a pie, and I can put the kettle on.” Without waiting for an answer, the vicar shuffled toward the hearth, kettle in hand.

  Emma opened her mouth, but Phee cut her off. “Mrs. Courtland makes the best pies. You don’t want to miss the opportunity to taste one. Vicar, let me do that. I’ll make the tea. Take a seat and get to know Emma.”

  Once he’d served the pies, bursting with late-summer berries and encased in a flaky crust like only Mrs. Courtland could make, Phee poured tea for everyone and finally joined them at the table.

  “Where’s John?” she asked.

  “Finishing the lessons at the schoolhouse. He’ll be home late.” Arcott turned to Emma. “He’s marrying soon. A girl he’s been sweet on for an age.”

  Emma nodded, but she looked a little lost, as if slightly out of her depth outside a posh drawing room. Phee smiled, then closed her eyes in bliss when the first bite of pie hit her tongue.

  Following her lead, Emma took a bite, then made a happy little moan before covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, that wasn’t a ladylike sound. This pie is perfect, though, isn’t it?” Her cheeks blushed a vibrant pink as she took another bite.

  “I told you. Mrs. Courtland’s pies can’t be missed.” Phee reached over and covered Arcott’s gnarled fingers with hers. “Vicar, I have a favor to ask. I’m afraid I need your help one last time.”

  “Is it time for Adam to finally be at peace, then?”

  “Yes.” Her throat tightened around the word. “We won’t publish the death notice quite yet. But it’s time. Emma needed help, so she will be Adam’s widow.”

  Arcott’s eyes filled with tears, and his fingers shook when he turned his hand over to squeeze hers. “What shall your new name be, child?”

  Phee smiled. She’d thought long and hard about this. “Fiona. Then I can still be Phee. Same last name, I think. A distant cousin, if we can do that.”

  He nodded. “You’ll need a bap
tism record. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to ask you to lie again.”

  “This will bring us full circle. I took your place in the world, but now I can give you another.” The teacup rattled in the saucer when he set it down. “Go visit your brother while I find the right record book.”

  The chairs scraped against the floor when they rose, then Phee held the door open for Emma.

  Early evening sunlight dappled the leaves overhead as they wove through the headstones in the graveyard. At the right marker, they stopped, and Emma hugged herself at the sight. “Doesn’t it disturb you to see your own name in stone like that?”

  Phee sighed. “It hurts more to not see his. It’ll actually be a relief when this is over and I can visit a headstone with Adam’s name.” Reaching out, she trailed a hand over the curved rock face, sweeping at a bit of moss that clung to the O in Ophelia.

  “I don’t know how you did it, Phee. You’re remarkable,” Emma said.

  Phee knelt and rested her hand on the grass atop the grave, the ever-present grief for her brother welling to the surface. “No,” she whispered. “I survived. That’s all. We do what we must. I miss him, though. I wish you could have known Adam.”

  Emma placed a hand on Phee’s shoulder. “I knew a version of him. And next, I get to meet Fiona.”

  As Phee looked up at her, backlit as she was by the sun, the resemblance to Cal was strong, and it added another layer of ache to her chest. “Please, God, let this be my last name change.”

  Vicar Arcott was a man of his word and, thankfully, was willing to falsify records one more time. An hour later she kissed him goodbye, and he pressed a slice of pie into Emma’s eager hands at the carriage door. “Don’t stay in the village. Milton will get word if you do, especially with this fancy rig,” he said.