The Earl's Temptation
by Emma V. Leech
Published by: Emma V. Leech.
Cover Art by Victoria Cooper
Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1545218082
ISBN-10: 1545218080
****
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.
No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is inferred. The Earl of Falmouth was a real person and the family and the house still exist, however this is a work of fiction.
Table of Contents
The Earl's Temptation
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
About the Author
Scandal's Daughter
Other works
Want More Emma?
The Key to Erebus
The Dark Prince
Acknowledgements
The Earl's Temptation
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron.
Prologue
Roscoff. France. July. 1814
The old woman shifted her bird-frail bones on the thin pallet and coughed. The movement racked her fragile body, leaving her gasping and clutching at the ragged blanket that covered her. Her young charge ran to her and clutched at her hand, all wide blue eyes and desperation.
Old age was a curse and a blessing. Dying and leaving this God-forsaken place was no hardship, but leaving Céleste was hard indeed. The poor, sweet child. With both her parents gone, she had no one now and not a penny to her name. The last real money they'd had was spent years ago, on bribing the priest into giving her Maman a proper burial despite the fact she'd committed suicide. Since then their existence had consisted of grasping at life with frantic fingers, taking in washing and mending; the girl had even been driven to steal on occasion, though the risks were dreadfully high. Marie knew her own bones would be consigned to a pauper's grave but couldn't find the will to care about that. Her worries were over, but Céleste ... God alone knew how she would survive.
"Now, Céleste, go to the chest over there, quickly," she rasped, her voice barely audible, her skeletal fingers pointing towards the girl's only hope. "There are papers. Get them out."
She watched the young woman move and wished, as she had wished every day since they had fled their old lives, that things had been different. The Revolution had changed many things. Supposedly it would bring a better life to the poor and the needy, though she had seen little sign of it yet, with the wars that had followed on its heels. A new world born of such bloodshed ... how could that ever be justified? And Napoleon seemed just as grasping and power hungry as any monarch had ever been.
"These, Marie?" The girl held up a thick roll of parchment and the old woman nodded. Céleste ran back to sit beside her, the papers clutched in her hand.
Marie reached out and touched the perfect face with a bony finger, the calloused and ugly digit looking obscene beside her sweet countenance. "The picture of your mother, such beauty." The words were not happy ones, though, for she well knew the kind of attentions the girl already attracted, a situation that would only get worse. She was seventeen now, almost eighteen, and did all she could to hide the gifts she'd been given, tucking her long hair under an ugly cap and wearing shapeless garments many sizes too big. But nothing could disguise those wide blue eyes framed with thick dark lashes, the porcelain skin, or the perfect bow of her pink lips.
"These papers," Marie said, dragging her tired mind back to the important matter she must deal with. "These you must guard and keep hidden until such time as you find someone you can trust, someone who can help you regain all you've lost."
Céleste shook her head and Marie felt a surge of anger. "Oui! You must and you will regain it. It is your duty, it belongs to you. You are Célestine de Lavelle, La Comtesse de Valrey. You are the last of your line. The title goes to you from your mother, and from her mother before her. You must ... you must ..." The old woman bent over as a cough shook her bones and chased away any remaining strength she had. "Promise me, Céleste," she whispered.
The girl looked up at her, eyes full of sorrow and fear, but she nodded. "Je promets," she whispered and Marie sighed and laid her head down. She had done all she could, her time was up, and now the fates would take the girl where they would. She prayed they would be kind.
Chapter 1
"Wherein things go awry and the fates get tangled."
Roscoff. 25 February. 1815
Alex Sinclair, fourth Earl of Falmouth, regarded his men with satisfaction. It had been another good night's work and once the last of the cargo was away they could breathe again.
"Well, Mousy, how are you enjoying your first run?" he demanded of the big man as he shouldered a massive barrel of the finest French brandy onto the small boat drawn up beside the larger hulk of The Bold Bessie. An Earl he may be, but he got his hands just as dirty as the rest of the men.
"I liked it fine, M'Lord," Mousy replied with a grin, reaching up to take the barrel from him. "S'pecially as it kept me out o' harm's way for a day or two."
"You can't hide from her forever," Alex said, not bothering to hide his grin. "She's going to want you to ask her on your return."
Mousy went quiet and looked a little queasy. "Aye, well. Maybe I'll jus' lie low for a day or two. 'Till it blows over. "
Alex chuckled. His sister in law's maid, Annie, had set her eyes firmly on Mousy and had made no secret of the fact she wanted them to get married. She was a formidable woman and Alex very much doubted the likelihood of the situation blowing over. She expected Mousy to return with a ring and a question for her and heaven hel
p the poor blighter if he didn't.
"Right, thisun' is full, 'ow much left?"
Alex turned to regard the remaining haul. Boxes of tea and bolts of the finest French silk, all wrapped in oil cloth to protect them from the elements and the salt spray, and over a dozen or more half anker tubs of brandy remained. Alex could see the beach in the moonlight, a hive of activity with maybe two hundred tubmen running back and forth with barrels on a harness over their shoulders, loading the ponies and getting the shore cleared as fast as they may. The crew of his brother's old ship The Wicked Wench had switched from pirates to smugglers like the proverbial ducks to water and the extra hands made light work of the offloading. Mousy had stood as spotsman, guiding the ship to its location from a signal offshore to one of various landing points. The more hard-headed and ruthless volunteered as batmen and patrolled the cliffs, eyes on alert for the Revenue.
"One more and we're done."
"Righty' ho." Mousy nodded and then looked up, frowning. "Wha's ..."
He didn't have time to finish the question as the boom of canon fire exploded overhead and shouts bellowed from all round the beach as the men saw the boat approaching.
"Hell and damnation!" Alex cursed, untying the line. "The Revenue are upon us, lads, get moving!"
All hell broke loose as he pushed the small boat with Mousy in away from his ship, The Bold Bessie, with force. "Get back to shore, get everyone safe away," he yelled.
"You'd bes' come n' all, ye Lordship," Mousy exclaimed as Alex shook his head.
"No, I stay with Bessie, get away ... now!"
The sails unfurled with a snap as the wind caught the single-masted cutter, pulling them away from shore. In the distance Alex could see the men scurrying back and forth but the Revenue were not on the beach at least. The greater part of the cargo had been unloaded, now all that mattered was getting free. He looked up at the skies, frowning as the moon disappeared. Disappearing in the dark was not a bad thing with Water Guard sticking to his arse like a burr, but the approaching storm would do nobody any good. He prayed that they'd ride it out.
"What now?" called his man from the helm and then threw himself to the deck as cannon shot screamed overhead.
Alex flinched as the cannon overshot and hit the waves on his far side, dousing him with icy water. "Back to Roscoff," he yelled, his face grim as thunder cracked overhead. "And pray we make it."
***
Céleste reached down and grabbed another piece of driftwood, barely feeling the smooth, worn surface between her numb fingers. Merde but it was cold. Mimi wandered behind her, humming a little tune that had begun to irritate her over an hour ago. Barely more than three notes, he repeated it over and over. His voice was surprisingly childlike, considering his bulk and the ugly, craggy face. But Mimi was a gentle giant. His mind was gone, lost somewhere on a battlefield thanks to a stray bullet that almost took his life. Instead it let him live and simply took all the meanness and pessimism that seemed to thrive in all other men, and left him sweet but stupid. He had become her shadow, her protector, and she was thankful for that. He had saved her more than once now, and she would happily endure the irritation of his annoying little habits and endless silly songs in gratitude for that.
She straightened as Mimi grunted and gestured further down the beach. Céleste looked up, blinking as the frigid wind made her eyes water.
"I don't know?" she replied, looking at the large dark shapes laid out on the shingle. They walked a little closer until the image arranged itself into shapes her mind could recognise. "Mon Dieu! They are men," she cried and moved to run towards them. Mimi stopped, dropping his clutch of drift wood and it clattered to the ground. His large hand grasped her arm and he shook his head, his eyes fierce.
"Let me go!" she said, her voice firm. "I won't let men die if I can help them." She had seen enough death in her short life. Death from war, from violence, from poverty, from filth, illness, starvation and old age. No matter how many times she saw it, it was ugly and to be fought at all costs. She shook her arm from his grasp and ran to them. Turning the first, her heart grew heavy. Certainly dead, drowned last night, and by the stillness of the three others they were all beyond saving. She looked around and saw other shapes among the corpses. Barrels and boxes wrapped in oil cloth. A wreck. They must have run afoul of the storm last night, the poor bastards. Smugglers most likely, the English were always here, stocking their boats with brandy and gin, tea and silk and lace. All of it a fraction of the price without the heavy taxes the English Prince Regent levied. Well it would do them no good now but ... It was an ill wind.
"Mimi, see all the boxes and barrels?"
Mimi nodded, his slow eyes scanning the beach.
"They're ours now, our secret. We must get them hidden as fast as we may. Can you do that? Can you be clever and fast, mon brave?"
Mimi beamed at her and nodded.
"Alors, off you go then."
With a heavy but practical heart, Céleste began to search each of the bodies in turn, checking pockets for money or gold. She left anything personal but took what she could that might keep the cold out and her belly full for a little longer. They'd be robbed soon enough of boots and anything else when the scavengers found them. She'd been lucky to get here first.
She was methodical, checking each body in turn with quick fingers. The farthest away was a fair distance up the beach and she ran, her feet slipping on the shale, aware that they could be discovered at any time and their plunder taken from them. She turned and noted with satisfaction that Mimi had done well clearing the beach and disguising their haul under the hull of a ruined boat. It would do for now. They'd have to come back when it was dark and find a better hiding place until it could be sold.
Turning her attention to the last body she struggled to turn him over. He'd been a huge man. Heavy broad shoulders and long, long legs, he would have towered over her. She gasped as he finally rolled onto his back and looked in sorrow at the still face. My, he'd been a handsome one, she'd bet he'd been a scoundrel with the women in life with a face like that. Carefully she pushed the thick dark hair from his face and leapt back with a squeal as he murmured and his eyelids flickered.
"Mon Dieu," she whispered. "You do have the luck of the devil, smuggler." She looked up to see Mimi walking back towards her and gestured for him to hurry. "He's alive!" she called. "Quick, we must get him indoors and out of the cold before he freezes to death."
This was easier said than done. Big as he was, Mimi struggled with the dead weight, dragging him by increments, and it was a blessing when the man came round, though he seemed not to know what had happened.
"Bessie?" he mumbled as Céleste patted his hand. "Non, not Bessie," she said with care, her English was excellent, or so she'd been told, but she hadn't practised it since her mother died. "I am Céleste, and you are very 'eavy. Please, you must help us and walk."
The man did his best to oblige and leaned on Mimi, putting one foot in front of the other with effort until they reached the door of Madame Maxime's. At least the whores would all be abed at this early hour of the morning. They might just make it up to the attic if they took care. She turned to the man and his eyes flickered open, trying to focus on her. Flinty grey, they spoke of a determined soul and for that she was glad. He was half drowned and frozen, his teeth chattering fiercely now. He'd have a fight to recover his strength.
"You must be quiet. Silence," she whispered, putting her finger to her lips.
He nodded his understanding and they began the arduous journey up the stairs to the cramped attic where she slept.
Mimi had just pushed him through the door to her room when Madame Maxime herself stuck her head out of the door on the landing below.
"What the devil are you doing, you stupid girl? Some of us have been working all night. Have you lit the fires?"
"Oui, Madame, I have. I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I tripped on the stair."
The door slammed shut without another word and Céleste br
eathed a sigh of relief. Up all night working, bah, she thought to herself, scowling. The other girls had been working perhaps, for work it indeed seemed to be with some of the disgusting characters that passed through Maxime's door. But the Madame herself would simply arrange and swallow enough brandy to keep her sour temper sweetened for the benefit of her paying customers.
Céleste scurried up the narrow, curving stairway to her attic room, where Mimi had laid the smuggler down on her pallet bed. Everything seemed even more cramped than usual with the two big men taking up all the available space, and she squeezed past Mimi and ducked the rafters as she moved around to the thin, straw-filled palliasse that served as her bed.
"We must get these wet clothes off him," she said, reaching forward to get started and yelping as Mimi smacked her hand away. "Merde!" she exclaimed, rubbing her stinging knuckles, and then began to laugh at the mutinous look on Mimi's face. "Oh, Mimi." She giggled. "I've lived in a brothel for the last six months. I promise he has nothing I haven't seen before."
Though she began to rethink that particular statement once Mimi relented and they began to peel away his sodden clothes. She had seen plenty of men, and women, in various states of undress, and a bewildering array of positions, some that seemed undignified. It was hard to miss such sights in a house like this one, no matter how hard she'd tried, to begin with at least. By now she believed she was unshockable; there was nothing left in the world that could possibly surprise her. And yet her curiosity was piqued as the layers were stripped away to reveal a hard, muscular body, quite unlike those she'd seen up to this point.
His large frame on the mattress shivered, his skin puckered with goose-flesh and she reached for the dry scrap of coarse linen that served her as a towel.
"Alors, you go, Mimi," she said, rubbing the linen hard over the man's heavy arm, both to dry him and to warm him. "You need to fetch the bread from the boulangerie and get some water on to boil. If they don't get their breakfast there'll be hell to pay. You must cover for me."
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