Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress
Page 1
WICKED EARL SEEKS PROPER HEIRESS
The Husband Hunters Club
SARA BENNETT
DEDICATION
I wish to dedicate this book to my writing friend, Christine Gardner, without whom this book would never, ever have been finished.
I’d also like to thank my editor, May Chen, and the team at Avon Books for their years of support, and my agent, Nancy Yost, who is always there for me. And finally my many, many fans who are amazingly loyal, thank you!
CONTENTS
* * *
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sara Bennett
An Excerpt from The Last Wicked Scoundrel by Lorraine Heath
An Excerpt from Blitzing Emily by Julie Brannagh
An Excerpt from Savor by Monica Murphy
An Excerpt from If You Only Knew by Dixie Lee Brown
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
* * *
Night of the 1837 Graduation Ball
Miss Debenham’s Finishing School for Young Ladies
Lady Averil Martindale smiled.
“Is it my turn?” she asked, after the furor had died down. Tina had just announced that she meant to seduce her childhood friend into falling in love with her, and her friends had been amused and somewhat disbelieving of her declaration of love. Now Averil knew she must speak and she didn’t really have a husband in mind.
“I don’t know if I want to.”
“Oh, Averil, do tell,” Marissa wheedled.
“Yes,” Olivia added, “telling each other who we plan to marry is what the Husband Hunters Club is all about.”
The others murmured their agreement, watching her expectantly.
Averil sighed. “You all know that I’m an orphan. My father died when I was young, and my mother . . . ran off. My financial affairs are taken care of by my father’s firm of solicitors, and although they look after me—I have a house and servants, and dear Beth, my chaperone—my father instructed them to tell me very little about my mother. I know virtually nothing about the past . . . I have some elderly cousins I’ve asked but they are as old as the hills and can barely remember their own names. No, don’t laugh, they are.”
The girls had been down this path many times before and they were ready with their answers.
“Your father was Lord Martindale,” Eugenie said.
“And your mother was a bolter,” Tina declared.
“She ran off when you were little and she died,” said Olivia.
“But you did see her before that, once, secretly. Somewhere in London. And she had a baby, a little girl, who she said was your half sister,” Marissa finished.
Averil couldn’t help but smile. “Goodness, I didn’t realize how often I told my story! But yes, that’s right. I have a sister, somewhere, and I want to find her. I want to share my inheritance with her.”
They nodded, eyes sparkling, because they all knew that Averil was an heiress. There was a large fortune awaiting her when she either married or turned twenty-one.
“Well, knowing all of that . . . Surely you can understand I can’t think of marrying anyone, not until I find my sister,” she offered at last. “Every single moment that I’m happy or content feels so wrong when she may be desperate and unhappy.”
“Has your private detective been able to find any more clues?” Tina asked, green eyes wide.
Private detective was a generous way of describing Jackson.
“My mother was an actress when she married my father—they met in Paris after the war finished with Napoleon being beaten at Waterloo. She went back to that profession before she died, but we haven’t been able to discover much else about her last years. I wrote to my old nanny, in case she knew something, and she remembers where my mother spent her last months. When I return home to London, I will meet with Jackson again, and we can go there. Perhaps I’ll find something new.”
For a price. Jackson always wanted to be paid before he opened his mouth. But Averil did not care how much it cost, as long as he gave her her sister back. She was a rich young lady, after all. Or would be. She was her father’s only child and there was no entailment to be bothered with. In a little under a year she would turn twenty-one and come into her inheritance. That was why she so desperately wanted to find her sister, so that she could share her own good fortune. Despite the fact that it was more than likely her sister was not the daughter of Lord Martindale, but rather the child of the unknown man her mother had bolted with when Averil was little.
“And in the meantime, Averil, you haven’t told us who you will be marrying,” Eugenia reminded her.
Averil knew her friends’ intentions were good, but she wasn’t like them. She wasn’t looking for the excitement and passion and fervor that seemed to drive her friends when it came to thoughts of marriage. Her search for her sister had taken her into all sorts of dreadful places, and she had seen the true horrors of poverty and want. She might never find the girl, but if she was to be a wealthy heiress then she could put her money to good use. And Doctor Gareth Simmons would be the perfect partner for that.
A sparkle of teasing laughter lit her gray eyes. So they wanted her to name her husband, did they? Well, how would they feel about Gareth filling the role then?
“Very well,” she said now, with feigned reluctance. “But you must all promise not to make judgments.”
They promised, words tumbling over each other and eyes wide with excitement as they wriggled closer. Obviously Averil had a secret she was reluctant to reveal, and that made it all the more imperative that they know.
Averil looked about her, taking her time, although she already had their full attention: Olivia and Marissa, Eugenie and Tina—the crème de la crème of Miss Debenham’s Finishing School, Class of 1837.
“My choice for a husband is Doctor Gareth Simmons.”
The ensuing silence was ominous.
“I will marry him and we will spend our lives working tirelessly for the underprivileged,” she added for good measure.
The crème de la crème exchanged glances.
“Well, Doctor Simmons is very good,” Tina said at last. “We all know how very good he is to the poor and needy.”
“You think he’s boring,” Averil said, narrowing her eyes. “I knew you would.”
Marissa spoke hurriedly, wary of her friend’s spectacular temper when roused. They all knew that Averil’s calm and subdued persona concealed depths of molten fire. “I was stuck with . . . that is, I conversed with Doctor Simmons for twenty minutes at one of my father’s get-togethers and he didn’t make me laugh, not once. You have to admit, Averil, he is rather dull?”
“Very dull,” Olivia agreed. “He quite lowered my spirits at Haworth’s ball. I can’t imagine how he must affect the poor and needy. Surely they need cheering up far more than the res
t of us? That is,” she added quickly, seeing Averil’s darkening expression, “when their spirits are already so low to begin with.”
But instead of letting her temper flay them, as they had experienced in the past and all expected now, Averil burst into giggles. “I’m joking with you! Gareth is an admirable man and I approve of his plan to set up a Home for Distressed Women, but we would never suit. Besides he is my second cousin—the poorer side of the family, unfortunately for him—and who wants to marry their cousin?”
“Averil, you’re not taking this seriously, are you? Think of someone you absolutely and completely adore. Come on, there must be someone!” Olivia was passionate on the subject.
“And if he proves difficult to hunt down and capture, then so much the better!” Marissa added her pennyworth.
Eugenie looked thoughtful. “Surely you should have some enjoyment from your fortune? If I had a fortune I would certainly have some fun,” she added a little wistfully.
“Averil, I know you think you don’t need a strong shoulder, that you can do very well on your own, but being on your own can be awfully lonely,” said Tina.
Averil rolled her eyes but she couldn’t help but smile. “You are dreadful. All of you. And poor Gareth wouldn’t have me to wed even if I begged him. His life is dedicated to good works, and he thinks I am a lost cause.”
Olivia cried, “Please, Averil, think of someone else. There must be someone else.”
Averil’s hesitation spurred them on.
The circle leaned toward her, demanding to know, their voices raised in what she considered the most ridiculous speculation. When someone suggested she was secretly enamored of Hughes, the man who delivered the school’s fish twice a week, she gave in to them.
“Oh, very well! There is someone I met . . . well, I didn’t even meet him, not properly. It was all very brief! But he did rather strike me as someone I could dream about at night, in private, you understand, without anyone knowing.”
Laughter at that, but they quickly hushed themselves. Waiting.
Averil wondered why on earth this name had jumped into her head. It was true that she hadn’t been introduced and did not expect to be—the man was a social outcast—but when she saw him her heart had begun to beat in a rackety manner that wasn’t like her at all. It was during a visit to the opera with a reluctant Gareth Simmons and her chaperone, Beth. Gareth hadn’t wanted to spend time on fripperies but Averil had persuaded him he might meet some rich donors for his Home for Distressed Women, and besides, Beth loved opera, which was the real reason Averil had wanted to go.
Her chaperone and the doctor were of a similar age, rapidly approaching forty, both unwed, and Averil had hoped that they might fall in love and that might lead to marriage. So far, however, although they were polite to each other there had been nothing to suggest they were the slightest bit in love.
Between Acts Two and Three, they’d made their way to the foyer for refreshments. And that was where she’d seen him. And the strange thing was, he was looking at her, too.
For a moment she’d felt as if his gaze were a javelin that had pierced her right through the heart.
It was a dreadful metaphor and Averil wasn’t at all gushy or girly, but that was exactly how she imagined the sensation at the time. She’d thought he was about to come across the room and speak to her, but then Beth was clasping her arm, worrying they would miss the rest of the opera, and when Averil turned her head again he was talking to the Honorable Kenneth McLaren. Much later, weeks later, the Honorable Kenneth met her somewhere or other, and happened to mention that someone at the opera had asked for her name.
“I didn’t introduce you,” he added, “didn’t think it was quite the thing, Lady Averil. His reputation,” he added, with a grimace and a shrug, as if she should know all about it.
“Averil!”
Four pairs of eyes were fixed impatiently on her. Waiting.
“Oh, very well. His name is Rufus, Earl of Southbrook.”
Their collective gasp was very satisfactory.
She spoke hurriedly. “It is ridiculous, I know. The man is a stranger to me—I know he has a bad reputation. I’ve never spoken to him. But there is something about him that appeals to the more frivolous side of my nature. An impossible fantasy.”
“That scar on his face,” Marissa whispered. “Is it from a duel? A scuffle in some dark alley with ruffians? And yet he is very handsome despite it.”
“And that air of danger that seems to cling to him.” Olivia shivered pleasurably. “Is he a man who would protect a maiden in distress? Or seduce her?”
“I’m certain he has some deep, dark secret that needs fetching out into the light and healing,” said Tina, practical as always.
“By the kiss of a woman, and that woman is Averil!” Eugenie had them laughing again.
“There, now, are you happy?” Averil asked, smoothing her skirts and tucking her heavy wheat-colored hair behind her ears—the carefully arranged curls were already falling out, as they always did. Her cheeks were pink and she felt warm and shaky at the very thought of kissing Lord Southbrook. It wasn’t going to happen, she reminded herself. It was all in jest. Rufus, Earl of Southbrook, was nothing more than a piece of theater to amuse her friends—and the man she dreamed of at night in her bed where her thoughts were nobody’s business but her own.
They filled their glasses with more champagne and lifted them in a toast. “Let us drink to Averil and her earl!”
“To Averil and the earl!”
Averil drank, too, laughing.
Tempting fate.
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
Mayfair, London
Some months later
Rufus Blainey, Earl of Southbrook, was angry.
No, he was furious.
His uncle, the Honorable James Blainey, had returned to London from taking the waters in Bath, and instead of staying put in the Mayfair town house, as instructed, had gone off seeking the pleasures to be found in the capital. Rufus knew only too well what that meant. Gaming houses, cards, dice, money changing hands—and not in James’s favor. Luck had deserted James twenty years ago and yet still he believed that one day he’d find her again.
Rufus clenched his fists and his valet backed up a few steps, eyeing him uneasily. “Finish it, Gregson,” he ordered. “I have to go out almost immediately.”
To make matters worse, if they could get any worse, today he had visited his bank and heard some dire news. He supposed it was his own fault for not being more vigilant, but he’d believed his uncle when he swore he’d never visit another gaming club again. What Rufus had thought of as his uncle’s annoying hobby was, in fact, a severe affliction. Gaming was like a drug to James, and once within its sphere he was powerless to resist.
And now it looked as if Rufus would lose Southbrook Castle.
The place was chilly and gloomy but it was his and despite the rumor that Rufus was a coldhearted villain, he loved it.
The money to save it would have to be found, but from where?
“See that a room is prepared for Mr. James, Gregson. He will be leaving for Southbrook in the morning. I don’t want him going missing. Do you understand?”
The valet nodded earnestly. “The room is to be locked, sir.”
“Locked up tight.”
Soon Uncle James would be far away from harm, but it was too late. The damage was done. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely James’s fault. He was just one in a long line of Southbrook wasters who had brought the family to this end. But whichever of them was to blame, they were now so far in debt that they would lose Southbrook and the London house. He’d be one of those shabby gentlemen living on the Continent, no doubt with James in tow, moving from room to room, one step away from the creditors.
He shuddered.
Rufus had been in tight situations before and found a way out. But this time . . . He tried to rally himself. There must be a way out. There must be something he could do, there must be.
Gregson had returned, his face whiter than before. “My lord,” he said, eyes like saucers. “Master Eustace can’t be found.”
Rufus frowned at his hapless valet. “I haven’t got time for this, Gregson, I have to find Mr. James.”
“But my lord . . .” Gregson was wringing his hands. “Master Eustace left a note to say he had gone with Mr. James to the East End, to keep an eye on him for you.”
Rufus, who had thought things could not get any worse, felt his heart sink in his chest. His son, Eustace, was seven years old. The last place he should be was with James when he was hell-bent on pleasure.
Drat the boy!
And yet Rufus felt a measure of pride, too. Eustace had known his father would be angry that James had gone off, and he had taken it upon himself to go, too, to keep a man forty years older than him out of trouble.
His mouth quirked into an unwilling smile.
“Very well, Gregson. Get the coach around. I will take that with me.”
“And bring them both home safely, sir?”
“Yes, and bring them both home safe and sound,” Rufus replied, and refused to let any doubts enter his mind. Some years ago Rufus had been engaged by a secret government organization called The Guardians. His job had been to patrol the East End and listen in to possible seditious talk. He’d learned the narrow alleys and laneways like the back of his hand. Wherever James was, he would find him, and Eustace, too, and then he would let his temper rip at the pair of them.
Averil tucked her shawl more closely about her, using a fold of it to cover her hair and the lower half of her face. Her clothes were the oldest she could find in her wardrobe. Some of the places she’d been to tonight were not safe for a woman like her, young and rich and upper class. The grubby streets and grubbier inhabitants disliked and distrusted her sort, and it was only the gentlemen with gold in their palms that received a friendly welcome.