Earl of Shefford
Noble Hearts Series: Book Three (Wicked Earls Book 28)
Anna St. Claire
Sassy Romances
Copyright © 2021 by Anna St. Claire
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For My Granddaughters
…who at this age don’t always understand why Mimi is always writing.
It is my fondest hope that each of you discover a love that feels like a friendship put to music—as I have found in my own life.
Mimi
Contents
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
Epilogue
EARL OF ALNWICK
About the Author
Also by Anna St. Claire
Love is like a butterfly. It goes where it pleases and pleases where it goes.
—Unknown
Chapter 1
London, England
September 1822
“That, I believe, is the game!” Colin Nelson, the Earl of Shefford, breathed a sigh of relief. How had Bergen talked him into one more game with Lord Wilford Whitton? He already suspected the man cheated when he could, and failing that, he was a terrible loser. Tonight, the man could not cover his losses without giving up some part of his estate, having already lost both his horse and a building. A building, indeed, which now belonged to Colin, even though he was uncertain of what it looked like or its actual worth. Nevertheless, I plan to put it to good use, he mused. Hell and confound it! The paper feels damp. He glanced at the vowel before tucking it into his waistcoat pocket—making sure Whitton’s perspiration had not smeared the ink before wiping his hands on his pantaloons.
“My lord, might we exchange a few words about this for a moment? Perhaps there is another way to pay you. The building has been in my family for a long while.” Lord Whitton grabbed his chewed, cold cigar, which had been resting next to his empty glass, and stood up from the table. The short, red-faced lord had been huffing since he had shown his losing cards. “I have an idea and I think you might be interested in my proposal.”
“I cannot imagine what else you could have. You have already wagered your horse and lost it; and now, this family building. I do not make a habit of leaving women and children homeless by winning a man’s house from him.” He watched Whitton wipe the sweat from his head. By now, that handkerchief had to be soaked, he thought, trying to decide how to handle the man who was growing more and more fidgety. Instinct told him it was time to leave. “I have no notion whether this building is worth the hundred pounds you owe me, but I know the area and will take a chance.” Colin pushed back from the table and stood up. “The game is over. I suggest you go home.” He looked around the room. Circles of cigar smoke hovered over several heads before making its way to the general haze of smoke at the ceiling. Activity ceased at the closest tables, as the players’ heads turned to watch. Even the popping and crackling from the enormous fireplace across the room seemed louder and closer. He found himself buoyed by the temporary audience.
“If you will, please hear me out.” Perspiration coated the man’s forehead. “I should not have wagered the building.”
“Yet you did,” Colin responded coolly. “The gaming table has not been kind to you this night. Perhaps you should have stopped playing after you lost your horse to Lord Bergen.” People like Whitton would benefit from house limits on wagers, yet they rarely put one in place.
“I thought I could win back my losses. “Twas but a small debt,” the man whined. “My horse is a thoroughbred. It should have carried me further on the wager.”
Colin noted the tone of indignation steeling Whitton’s voice. “Yet you lost that to a different person,” Colin said with a note of astonishment even he could hear.
“He is your friend. How do I know the two of you have played fair?” The man sneered, the accusation clear.
From the corner of his eye, Colin observed his friend, Thomas, the Earl of Bergen, quietly signal the stalwart individual standing beside the door with a nod of his head. The last thing they needed was to dive into a mill in this hell. Colin was already regretting the decision to try out this new hell. They should have gone to the club. He did not care for public displays.
“I will give you one chance to redeem your building. If you can satisfy your entire debt by tomorrow evening—in cash—I will return the deed to the building. If not, consider the building payment in full.”
A tall, burly man with dark hair and a trimmed beard appeared at the table. “My lord, the night has ended for you. We ask that you leave now,” the bouncer said, his eyes on Whitton. For added emphasis, he pushed up each of his sleeves, revealing large, muscular arms. A tattoo of an ace of spades with a dagger across it showed on the underside of one arm.
“They have cheated me,” Whitton accused, pointing a finger at Bergen and Shefford. “These are the gentlemen you should throw out—and I demand the return of the deed he stole from me,” he rasped, taking a step back.
“Did you just call me a cheat?” Colin stepped forward, his voice low.
The bouncer grabbed Lord Whitton by the back of his coat. “My lord, there are windows throughout the house. If there was any cheating occurring, we would see it. I will escort you to the door. Your participation for the evening—here, at least—is over.” With that, the guard forcibly removed the squirming, protesting man.
“You have not heard the last of me,” Whitton yelled over his shoulder, before being dragged to the door.
“Well, that did not end too well,” observed Colin, quietly. “I hope he finds his way home.”
“Without his horse,” sneered Bergen.
“Do you think he will try to take his horse? He lost it to you,” Colin added wryly.
“I conjured that he might and removed the horse to the stable across the street, with ours, when I took a break from the tables earlier. I am glad I insisted on a signed bill of sale.”
“Ah. Yes, that was probably wise,” Colin quipped.
“Faro does not appear to be his game, Shefford,” Bergen said, taking the last sip of his brandy. “Mm, I think this must be French brandy. How unusual to find it at a gaming hell.” He sniffed the rim of the glass and smiled, as if confirming his point.
“I feel the need for more salubrious surroundings. What say you we head to the club?”
“That is funny! I am right behind you, my friend.” Bergen sniggered. He picked up his coat and followed Colin.
As the two men approached the stable, a young man jumped up from where he was sitting, beneath a tree near the gate.
“M’lords,” he started, brushing off his breeches. “Can I bring yer horses to ye?”
“This is the young man who has been taking care of my winnings tonight,” Bergen said, chuckling.
“Me name’s Danny. I’m glad to see ye, m’lord,” the young man re
joined. “A shorter gentleman came fer that horse, just like ye said. I ’ad placed her in the back, in case I was with another when ’e came. He was really mad when I told him ye had taken her.”
“That was good thinking. Here is a little something extra for watching our horses and being so thoughtful, Danny,” Colin said, withdrawing the money from his waistcoat.
“Get away! A crown. You gents are the dog’s whiskers!”
“We had a run of luck at the tables tonight and our good fortune has become your gain,” Bergen added, grinning.
“Thank you,” the lad said with gusto. “I’ll be back in a jiffy with the horses.” He pocketed the coin and hurried into the stables.
“It is interesting how Whitton’s demeanor changed so rapidly,” Bergen remarked thoughtfully. “You should beware. A loser’s remorse can do strange things to a body. Perhaps I should apologize for talking you into one more game.”
“There is no need. I won.” Colin grinned. “Although I will admit I do not understand the building’s worth. It could have the walls eaten through and be overrun with rats, for all I know. I plan to take a look in a day or so—if he does not find the readies for his debt.”
“That was a very generous offer. You were more than fair.”
“Here come our horses.” Colin never felt comfortable with compliments, no matter how sincere. “I merely gave him an opportunity. The old codger seemed abnormally worried about the loss of the building.”
“What are you thinking to do with a building you have yet to see, Colin?” Bergen asked, his tone one of amusement.
“Ah! Here are the horses,” he said again in an attempt to deflect his friend’s attention. He had an idea for the building but preferred to speak to his brother first. “It would seem our return will be slower… I suspect you will have to pull along the second horse.” He eyed the mare with disfavor. “It was very well of you to move her…” Colin let his voice fade as he noticed the boy’s face. Something was wrong. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. He turned around, just in time to block Lord Whitton’s knife as the man thrust it towards his back. Colin’s right arm received the punishing blow instead, but ignoring the pain, he pummeled Whitton with both fists, knocking him off balance. Shouting to Danny to run for help, Bergen joined him, and the two men wrestled Whitton to the ground.
“You should have that looked at,” Bergen observed some minutes later as they watched a pair of constables lead Lord Whitton away in handcuffs to the lock-up. “I have never seen that man so out of control. Attacking a peer—whatever next?” He grimaced. “I cannot imagine what drove him to do such a thing.”
“I will speak with the magistrate on that situation tomorrow. I have a disquieting feeling about that gentleman, and I need to make sure that they punish him for the assault,” Colin muttered. “Can you help me on to my horse?”
“I will. However, I insist you come to my house. I will send for the doctor. The cut is deep and needs to be attended.”
“Very well. However, I wish you will not make too much of it,” Colin returned, grimacing in the other direction. Distraction could help. His arm felt on fire. “I would like to speak with Baxter about Whitton and make sure that he does not escape justice.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Hopefully, the magistrate will send him to gaol, and they keep him there for a goodly while,” Bergen added.
“He can rot there,” Colin returned. “The man is dangerous and should not be among decent folk.”
“He is obviously in quite deep. Unless someone owes him, he is not likely to have enough blunt to grease the gaoler’s fist,” agreed Bergen. “Whitton may be a scoundrel; however, he is also an earl. I will send word to Baxter and Morray once I have you safely home. The sooner he is under lock and key, the better.”
Chapter 2
Honoria Mason glanced about the room, taking in the sleeping faces of fourteen children. My little angels. The room still smelled of paint and lye soap, despite her efforts to air it, yet it was an affirmation of the level of cleanliness she demanded. The school reopened three months hence, and these small children had already claimed their places. All of the children were ten years of age or under, with one toddler—a little girl. Since they did not have older children, they had made the decision to put them all in the largest room, while the painting and repairs continued in the others. Too soon, they would need the other rooms. For now, it was nice to see them all together.
One small iron crib and thirteen wooden beds lined opposing walls. A small iron sconce held a single candle that flickered from the wall on which it hung, away from the bedding. The dim light it provided was barely enough to see all the children’s faces from the doorway. Lately, Nora had wondered about the women who might not have cast their children away had they had some financial help. Merely surviving, financially, was out of reach for many of these women without support.
Nora herself did not have money, but she had space and she had some connections. Much though she reviled the ton, perhaps there were some situations in which they could help others less fortunate. She needed to give the idea more thought. While she would never understand how someone could cast off their child, no matter the circumstances, she was open-minded enough to know that everyone did not fit that mold. Society saw many of them as unworthy and, in some cases, by-blows to be hidden away from view.
Parents or relatives of these children had abandoned them here or on the streets, unable or unwilling to care for them. They often cast the children out without a look back, something which broke her heart to even think of. Others lost their parents through disease or worse and were left with nowhere to turn. To remain on the street would only lead to them becoming pawns of the pickpocket gangs, who taught them to steal. It was important that these cherubs learn a respectable trade, one which would place them away from danger. She did not wish for Society to have so much control that they had no choices in life, Nora reflected, realizing with surprising clarity she was thinking of her own situation.
“Och! They are quiet at last.” A voice spoke behind her, startling her from her thoughts.
“Yes, you are right, Mrs. Simpkins,” she murmured, her mind still trying to grasp the notion that perhaps the ton itself could help undo some misfortune she saw in front of her. Nora was no fool. Some of these children were bastards, born out of wedlock to women who, perhaps because of their positions within a household or Society, could not keep a child. These women could ill afford to lose their positions and had few resources to use. How difficult that must be, she thought, to choose.
“I ken ye well enough to see ye are thinking about something serious,” the older woman whispered. “It does me heart good to see how much like yer grandma that ye be.”
Perceiving only benefits from her ideas, Nora determined to list them and visit her benefactor—Grandmama. She needed more than money to make some changes she envisioned.
“I feel as though I am taking advantage, yet my grandmother has often urged me to apply to her whenever I have need of anything,” returned Nora.
“Nay. Ye do not ken how proud she is of ye.” After a moment of silence, Mrs. Simpkins smiled and added, “I do not hear the wee one that came today. Perhaps that is a good sign.”
It was not unusual for the new children to cry themselves to sleep for several nights upon their arrival. She and Mrs. Simpkins worked hard to soothe the transition. Nora was thankful that her grandmother had loaned her the older cook—who constantly showed a heart of gold towards the children. Three women—herself, Mrs. Simpkins, and Mary, the maid—made up the household. In addition, Mr. Marsh, Grandmama’s gardener and handyman, came twice a week to help with the land and any jobs that might require a man’s strength.
Nora’s means were barely sufficient, and while bread and soup had become a staple, she had found Mrs. Simpkins to be a genius at making a sumptuous meal for the children from only a few supplies. Nora refused to take more money from her grandmother than necessary.
“Mama,” the child wailed, and then coughed repeatedly.
An older child raised her head. “I think she misses her mama, Miss Nora. She can sleep next to me, if that’ll help.”
“Alice, that is very sweet of you. I think I will walk about with Amy for a few minutes.” She leaned over and kissed the six-year-old girl on the forehead. “Go back to sleep, little one.”
“Thank you, Miss Nora.” The child had barely whispered her response when soft snores came from her cot.
Turning to the crib, Nora took a deep breath and out of habit, smoothed her skirt with her hands. “This transition will be hard for you, little one.” She reached into the cradle, picked up the whimpering child and held her to her chest, to comfort her.
“There, there, fret not, little one. We will look after you,” she cooed to the little girl.
Mrs. Simpkins met her at the door. “I remembered we had a little of this left over and thought warm goat’s milk could help.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Simpkins. It may take both of us to help her recover from her grief. It never ceases to amaze me that people consider children as chattel. They have hearts and feelings. I will take her to my room and rock her to sleep. I should probably have a small bed installed in the corner for times such as these,” she added.
“’Tis not a bad idea. Remember, I am here if ye need me, Miss Nora. I will care for the children as if they were me own,” the woman responded.
Earl of Shefford: Noble Hearts Series: Book Three (Wicked Earls Book 28) Page 1
