Changing the Earl's Mind (The Lords of Whitehall Book 3)

by Kristen McLean

  Sarah only smiled. She was sure any shopping experience she’d had would pale in comparison to what these two ladies were preparing for her.

  There was a little shop in her hometown of Marysville where she could buy premade dresses. It was simple. She would select a dress, purchase it, and take it home where she would make any necessary alterations herself.

  From the sounds of it, tomorrow would be nothing but taking measurements, browsing catalogues, selecting fabrics, trying on dresses, and repeat.

  They were soon pulling up in front of a magnificent home of beautiful, pale stone in Mayfair. Five floors—she had counted—with triangular stone pediments above the windows and columns on either side of the front door. Certainly not as grand as a gothic castle, but marvelous just the same.

  Servants appeared the instant they stepped foot in the vestibule to take their bonnets and coats, and then they carried their luggage upstairs to be unpacked.

  While the servants were bustling about, Lady Saint Brides ordered tea to be brought to the parlor, which was small and cozy, with a large window opening up into Upper Grosvenor Street. Sarah was immediately drawn to the window and the gray view beyond, looking as though it might begin to rain at any moment. Still, there were well-dressed couples with their parasols and even dandies strolling along, fearless of the threatening weather.

  “You must be awfully tired after a long day in that pitching box of a carriage,” Lady Saint Brides said as she gracefully settled onto a settee. “But before we retire to our rooms to rest, we must first enjoy some fortifying tea, and perhaps some music.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Umberton agreed, sitting beside the other dowager. “I feel as though I could consume an entire pot.”

  “I certainly hope you resist the urge, Francine. What sort of example would we be, guzzling down tea by the potful?”

  “I do not guzzle anything, Elisabeth.”

  “Pfft.”

  Sarah smiled. Without turning to look, she knew Lady Umberton was scowling agitatedly and Lady Saint Brides was most probably glancing away to hide a small smile.

  On the journey to London, they had talked a great deal, and so it didn’t take long for Sarah to come to know them, at least enough to understand the basic nature of their friendship.

  “I shall have you know,” Lady Umberton said. “Even the queen herself has seen fit to compliment my etiquette.”

  “I have witnessed you consume an entire chocolate cake in one sitting,” Lady Saint Brides said. “Along with three cups of tea.”

  Lady Umberton gasped. “That happened only once! I was upset, and wasn’t everyone? A mad king put the sickly Duke of Portland up as minister over Parliament. It was nearly our undoing.”

  “No, my dear, it was not.”

  “Two ministers dueled! And it was all because of Portland’s neglect.”

  “Men duel constantly,” Lady Saint Brides said patiently. “That hero of the House of Lords, the Marquess of Ainsley, dueled countless times before he married, and it had nothing to do with Portland.”

  “He was a rogue.” Lady Umberton snorted. “I have never heard of any respectable man firing a pistol at twenty paces. Drake would never do such a deplorable act.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Lady Saint Brides agreed. “At least, I do not think he would. I doubt he has ever been challenged.”

  “Exactly!” Lady Umberton said victoriously. “A gentleman wouldn’t be, would he?”

  “When do you think he will arrive?” Sarah asked, turning from the window.

  “A gentleman?” Lady Umberton asked. “In the early afternoon, of course, when it is the proper time to call. But I would not expect one until after you have been introduced to society.”

  “She means Drake, Francine. Heaven above.” Lady Saint Brides gave her head a small shake. “He will not bother us today, my dear. I daresay he will take up lodgings elsewhere, and visit us only when we send for him. Now, about that music…”

  “We can’t wait long to do that, Elisabeth,” Lady Umberton said. “Otherwise, he will lock himself away in that office of his, and we shall never see him.”

  “He promised not to, and he always keeps his promises.”

  There was a knock at the door before a servant brought in tea and cakes, allowing a lull to fall over the conversation. That did not mean there was a lull or anything loosely related to one going on in Sarah’s mind. She needed a plan. It seemed like any sort of murderer hunt required a solid plan… of sorts.

  “Come sit with us, Sarah,” Lady Saint Brides said as she poured tea. “Come and relax a bit. Tell me, do you play the pianoforte?”

  Sarah didn’t want tea. She didn’t want to relax. She wanted to watch the carriages go by… and jump into one. Instead, she nodded and took the teacup, sitting opposite the two older women.

  “I play a little.”

  Lady Umberton sighed heavily after taking a large sip from her cup. “This tea is marvelous.”

  “Of course it is,” Lady Saint Brides said, pausing to take a sip. “I imagine London offers much more of a selection of fine teas than Yorkshire.”

  “Actually, Mother, this is exactly the same tea that is served at Barrington Park.”

  The masculine rumble from the doorway had Sarah’s gaze snapping up and freezing on the handsome figure standing there.

  “Is it?” Lady Saint Brides had the grace to look amused. She took another long sip. “It tastes better here.”

  “Perhaps you ought to thank your new protégé for that,” he said, stepping into the room with a confident grace. “I find myself more appreciative of the little joys in life after traveling with Mrs. Tindall. You know what they say about having a brighter outlook after surviving trials and tribulations, and all that.” He flashed a disarmingly teasing smile at Sarah.

  This smile was even more breathtaking than the one he had given her in the inn yard that morning. A beautiful, genuine smile that she returned without thinking. Then she reached for her tea, mentally cursing herself for encouraging him. Whatever happened to her survival instincts? She had some at one point, she was sure of it.

  “What brings you here?” Lady Umberton asked. “It’s far too late for callers, and you must know we are bone-tired after a long day of travel.”

  He turned his attention to the older woman, leaving Sarah oddly jealous. “Forgive me. I only stopped by to pack a few things. I shall be staying at Lord Pembridge’s townhouse until the end of the Season as he is currently with his family in the country.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lady Saint Brides said. “That beautiful wife of his is having another child, is she not?”

  Saint Brides nodded, something inscrutable changing in his smile. A tightening in his features. “Some men have all the luck.”

  Lady Umberton snorted. “Hardly luck, my boy. Simply another example of a feckless rogue reformed by his wife.”

  “I never heard of Pembridge fighting duels, Francine,” Lady Saint Brides said.

  “Oh, fustian nonsense. How could he live as he did without having a glove slapped across his face just once?”

  “Have you not met the man?” Lady Saint Brides shot back. “He is a perfectly charming gentleman, and incredibly likeable.”

  “He would have to be very likable,” Lady Umberton muttered.

  Saint Brides lifted his brows at Sarah in silent inquiry, to which she simply shrugged.

  Then his mother turned to him abruptly. “We shall settle this once and for all. Drake, you know the earl. Has he ever acted sufficiently roguish as to be challenged to a duel?”

  His smile disappeared, to Sarah’s great relief, and he returned to his usual stern self.

  “I do not regale an audience with the roguish tendencies of other gentlemen. Certainly not amongst ladies.”

  Lady Umberton clapped her hands together with a grin. “You are ever the gentleman, Drake. Just as we said.”

  “But,” he said, his finger in the air, “if Pembridge had met another gentleman across a fie
ld, I would never hear of it. He would make sure of that.”

  “Why?” Sarah blurted out, regretting her curiosity the moment his green gaze trained on her. Heat skittered over her skin.

  “Because it is illegal, Mrs. Tindall, and I am the Home Secretary.” One corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. “The man is known for his charm, but he is not nearly as charming as you. If you could not convince me to look the other way, Pembridge would have no chance at all.”

  Heat crept over her face and, for a moment, she could see that heat reflected in his eyes.

  “Since you are here,” his mother said, oblivious to the desert heat erupting over Sarah’s entire body, “and Sarah plays only a little, do put your fingers to ivory and play us a little something.”

  His brows lifted. “I do believe you are becoming increasingly demanding in your advanced age, Mother.”

  The older woman’s face scrunched up, but then she smiled. “Please, my dear, play a soothing melody for your aging mother.”

  He looked about to decline, but after a moment of deliberation, he nodded and moved toward the instrument by the window.

  “Very well. I have not played in years, so do not be surprised if the noise I wring out of this instrument renders you deaf.”

  “Poppycock,” his mother muttered.

  “You have been warned,” he said gravely as he sat, his fingers stretching over the keys before he touched only his two index fingers to the ivory.

  Sarah covered an unladylike snort with her hand, but his narrowed eyes found hers. He looked utterly serious as he tapped a rudimentary version of one of Mozart’s sonatas.

  His mother sighed exasperatedly. “Drake, I asked nicely.”

  A mischievous half-smile twisted his face, but then he straightened and began playing a proper melody, one she had never heard before. The notes floated over the air, soft and sweet, and sad and achingly beautiful.

  “Forgive me,” he said as he played, the rich sound filling the room with a sort of enchantment. “I honestly cannot say what came over me. Is this better?”

  “Immeasurably.”

  Ladies Umberton and Saint Brides were both listening with closed eyes, while Sarah couldn’t take her eyes off the pianist. He was focused on some point outside the window as his fingers effortlessly danced over the keys. He was miles away, thinking so intently while he played.

  When the song was over, silence held until Lady Saint Brides’ voice brought them out of the trance.

  “You play beautifully. Just like when you were a boy.”

  He blinked as though he was surprised to be shaken from his thoughts. Then he lifted a brow. “Are you saying I ought to practice more?” he asked as he rose from the piano.

  His easy movements were those of a man who had never known hard labor, yet she knew his body was all hard muscle and sinew, as though he had been painstakingly sculpted for pleasure.

  The way he had looked as he fought the blacksmith flashed in her mind. He was dangerous—his body, his fists, and especially his mind—but he was also graceful, reserved, calm.

  She gave herself a mental shake. She had no business thinking about his body or how he moved it. He was insufferable. Domineering.

  “Your luggage is ready in your carriage, my lord.”

  He nodded his acknowledgement to the servant who had appeared at the door. “Ladies, it is time for me to leave you to your rest.”

  “Off with you, then,” his mother said, waving him off. “We shall send you the list of invitations we are accepting as soon as it is drawn up.”

  He nodded and quit the room, his every movement lithe as a cat’s.

  Heat crept up her neck, and her fingers curled into her palms, burning as though they were touching him still. His physique was the last thing she ought to be dwelling on. They were scarcely civil to each other, anomalous intimate moments notwithstanding.

  “Why, Elisabeth,” Lady Umberton said bemusedly, “did he… smile?”

  The dowager lifted her brows. “He is allowed to smile, is he not?”

  Lady Umberton blinked and pursed her lips. “He does not do it often, though, does he?”

  “How would I know? I barely see him. Though, he was always a sober child.” She paused and chuckled. “Well, he did have his mischievous moments. In fact, this wasn’t the first time he pretended he couldn’t play. For weeks, his piano tutor thought he was incapable of keeping time, as his rhythm was so erratic. The poor man was a ball of nerves when it was time for the recital. He was spitting nails when Drake played everything without error.”

  “Oh, how awful of him.” Lady Umberton smiled. “I am unaccustomed to his charm, I suppose.”

  That was what it was? He was being charming. But no, that would intimate he wasn’t charming before, but that isn’t so. He was always charming in his lack of charm. His brutal candor was charmingly un-charming.

  Lud, now she wasn’t even making sense to herself.

  Very well, for the sake of her sanity she would agree that he was being charming… or something. She never thought a little charm—or whatever it was—could do so much damage. Certainly it was only a very little charm—whatever it was. He was no Casanova, leaving her breathless with his rapier wit and devastating smile, but he did temporarily disarm her with a merely somewhat charming—ahem—smile, and a bit of silliness.

  Lady Saint Brides nodded. Then she sent a calculating look at Sarah before she returned to drinking her tea.

  “I suppose it’s only natural,” Lady Umberton went on. “His father was charming, and his brother, as well. I never thought of him as taking after them, though. Too much thinking going on in that oversized brain of his to be like them.”

  “Perhaps he grew into his brain and is no longer trapped inside it.” Lady Saint Brides smiled.

  “Or perhaps his screws up there were too tight, and riding in a carriage for days on end jiggled a few loose,” Sarah muttered under her breath. It was a more realistic explanation.

  The two older women laughed then, and heartily.

  Sarah covered her frustrations with her teacup, taking a long sip of the steaming liquid.

  After seeing his mother and guests comfortably settled in his home in Mayfair, Drake settled himself at Pembridge House. Thankfully, Pembridge had replied promptly to the note he had written that morning, and had even sent orders for his servants to prepare the study for Drake’s use.

  He had ignored the subtle humor with which Pembridge had responded to his situation, and focused instead on the news in the last paragraph. The baby was too impatient to wait until the due date, and instead surprised her mama nearly three weeks early, beautiful and demanding. In other words, she was the exact replication of her mother, he had said.

  “Anita Juliette Wells,” he murmured as he read the baby’s name and found himself smiling.

  Pembridge and his wife had two healthy babes now, and Pembridge’s adopted son would soon be ready for university. He was happy, and Drake was happy for him. The man was fearless, always had been. He must know his heart is bound to be broken. He must know someday his beloved wife would die, and his children might be taken before their time—it had been known to happen. Still, Pembridge had fallen in love and had welcomed those children into the world, and Drake would wager he was already itching to do so again.

  The odds were stacked too high against happiness. Drake could never take such a risk. It was madness.

  A trace of sorrow and perhaps jealousy had him folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket. Neither sorrow nor jealousy was logical. Neither was any of the other emotional nonsense filling his brain locker at present.

  He would respond later, when he felt more himself. In the meantime, he had orders to write. His agents were trained to handle assassinations and enemy spy networks. They would make quick work of a simple murder case. Those blackguards would never even know what hit them.

  He moved swiftly through the marbled entry hall and up the stairs until he reached the s
tudy. His own stationery was already settled on the desk beside an inkwell, a pen, and a stick of sealing wax. On the corner sat a fresh candle, a letter opener, and a tinderbox.

  He settled into the chair behind the desk with a fresh square of stationery, dipped the pen in the ink, and began writing. He would need to give his men his temporary residence so they would know where to send their reports. Thankfully, Harding, Pembridge’s butler, was once in the employ of the Home Office, spying on the previous earl, then serving the current one. Though he had left the service when Pembridge retired, Drake knew he could trust him to make sure all confidential missives remained confidential.

  Half an hour later, he rang for Harding and handed him a small stack of sealed envelopes to be sent to Whitehall immediately. From there, they would be personally delivered by a few of his men.

  This case was not nearly as dangerous or crucial as the sort he normally oversaw. No foreign spies were slinking about to assassinate the king, a member of Parliament, or his entire network of agents; or traffic thousands of children and opium for the pleasure of degenerates; or bring scores of ships filled with stolen weapons to countries torn by war who were just itching to blame the English for arming their enemy. Even so, he would treat it with the same caution. Protocol, after all, was put in place for a reason.

  He leaned back in the chair, exhaling a long, deep breath. He had done it. He had managed the affair without stepping foot in his office at Whitehall, though he itched to be behind his own desk where he had control over the most important matters.

  Important matters, ye gods! This was only one affair, and one his agents should never have been bothered with in the first place. He ought to be spending his time overseeing countless other issues. Arguably more important ones, such as the unrest in Paris, where another revolution was building, he was sure of it.

  Considering how the last one turned out, he truly ought to keep abreast of the situation. Not to mention, in a few short weeks, he was scheduled to meet with Mahmud, sultan of the Ottoman Empire. The Greeks had been fighting for their independence from the Ottoman Empire for years, but not for much longer.