Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Cullen, Sharon

  “Excellent.” Nathan slid off his stool and tossed a few coins on the bar. Already his blood hummed with the anticipation of holding a hand of cards. The sour feeling in his stomach turned to excitement as he exited by the back door.

  Laurent wasn’t wrong either. There were three tables of men playing faro, intent looks upon their faces. They didn’t even look up when Nathan entered. The place was dark and dank, nothing at all like Laurent’s establishment. It smelled of cheap whiskey and even cheaper whores. There were few conversations above the sound of shuffling cards. The tables were shiny from the slide of cards, the floor sticky with ale and whiskey, the air humid and rank. This was the type of place in which Nathan learned to gamble. This was where he lost some, won more and moved to higher circles with higher stakes. It felt good to slide into the warm seat someone recently vacated.

  Talk was limited, tension high. Men focused on the cards to the exclusion of all else. Their eyes rarely darted left or right for fear of being accused of cheating. Sweat beaded some of their foreheads, while some smiled as they scooped their winnings toward them. Nathan was in his element here where fortunes were won and lost and, if one was lucky—as he’d been—won again.

  The other players accepted his presence with a slight nod and nothing more—rank meant nothing here. Heavily painted and scantily clad women strolled the room with trays of drinks, bestowing free liquor and expensive favors. The similarities to his gaming hell ended there. He had women and drink but his women were of high quality and the drink even higher.

  Nathan partook of the free liquor but not the favors. He never mixed women and gambling. Gambling always came first. He thought of his business and wondered how it was fairing then dismissed the thought. His second-in-command, Rutherford, no doubt had the reins firmly in hand. In a way, he was a shrewder businessman than Nathan.

  As the night wore on, men began to leave, some with full pockets but most with empty pockets, until there was only one table left. The women had dwindled to a few hardy souls who no doubt hoped that when the game ended the winner would lavish them with attention and coin. Nathan pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time and cursed.

  Damn it. The entire night had passed. He should be well on his way to Paris by now. With an apology to the others, he scooped up his winnings and headed out the door. Not a bad haul for a pickup game. He’d made back most of what he lost his last night in England.

  While he didn’t need the money anymore, he still felt a sense of relief when he walked away richer rather than poorer. And this morning he was relieved that he barely thought of Claire at all. At least no more than ten times.

  As he approached the Admiral’s Inn from the front this time, he spied a carriage loaded with a lone trunk that he recognized all too well.

  Lady Claire was up awfully early.

  The object of his thoughts emerged from the inn dressed in a traveling gown of emerald green that he just knew matched her eyes. Her hair was piled high and pulled tight, lacking its usual tendency to appear as if it would tumble down around her shoulders. She looked around furtively as if she were sneaking away. He slid into the shadows of a building to discover what she was up to.

  She walked past him without seeing him then reached for the handles to climb into the waiting carriage.

  “Lady Chesterman.”

  She hesitated, one dainty, booted foot on the first step, her hand reaching for the edge of the door. For an interminable moment she froze in that position.

  Slowly she stepped down, but it was another moment before she fully faced him. When she did, she squared her shoulders and plastered on a bright smile that was a bit on the brittle side.

  “Why, Lord Blythe, what a surprise.”

  “Funny, I was about to say the same thing.” He stepped out of the shadows and folded his arms across his chest, regarding her solemnly.

  The horses shook their manes, their harnesses jingling. Mist from the channel covered the ground, swirling around her skirts. Her gaze shifted away, then back to him.

  “You’re up and about awfully early,” he said.

  She twitched her skirts, sending the wisps of fog dancing away before they returned to wrap around her legs. “Yes, well. I wanted an extra early start so I can thoroughly enjoy Paris.” The smile didn’t dim, but appeared more and more forced. “And it appears you’re up awfully late.” She wrinkled her nose at his disheveled appearance.

  He bit back the smile that suddenly wanted to surface. What a cheeky chit and yet he liked that about her. She gave as good as she got and that was refreshing.

  “I am at that. And your maid?” he asked, looking around. “Is she fully recovered?” He found it decidedly odd that he hadn’t seen Betsy, the nanny who, Sebastian insisted, would be traveling with her.

  She jerked her gaze back to him, her eyes widening a fraction. Not enough for him to notice if he hadn’t been watching so closely. Yes, definitely something was going on.

  “My maid?”

  “I believe you said her name is Amy?”

  She cleared her throat. “Alice. Her name is Alice.”

  “Ah. Alice. I assume she’s feeling better since the crossing?”

  “She is. Doing well, that is. I’ll, um, convey your concern to her.”

  “Might I do it myself?” He took a step toward the carriage. “I’d like to see with my own eyes that she is well. It will do you no good to have a sick maid on your journey. You wouldn’t want to become ill yourself.”

  Claire stepped between him and the carriage, slapping a hand on his chest then snatching it away. The lamps hanging off the back of the carriage highlighted the lovely shade of pink her face had turned. “She’s sleeping. Because she’s still tired from the sailing.”

  “I see.” Yes, he saw, all right. Lady Claire definitely planned to travel to Paris without a maid.

  Now he was in a bind. He had his own agenda to see to. One he was already a day behind on. Yet he didn’t feel right leaving Addison’s sister alone in France with no chaperone. The road to Paris was fraught with all manner of thieves, and a young widow would be ripe for the picking.

  He looked at the driver but the man’s back was turned toward him, and by the tilt of his head, Nathan surmised he was catching a quick nap before his long journey. Could he be trusted to protect Claire?

  “My lady?”

  Both Nathan and Claire turned. A young woman poked her head out of the carriage.

  Claire smiled. “One moment, Marie.” She turned back to Nathan with what he swore was a smile of triumph. “As you can see, she is doing very well. Now, I must be off in order to arrive in Paris on time. Good day, Lord Blythe. May you find success on your journey.”

  She jumped up into the carriage and slammed the door behind her.

  The coach lurched, then moved forward, leaving Nathan in the middle of the yard with gritty eyes. He bit back the worst of the curses that came to his lips.

  “Alice. Her name is Alice.”

  “One moment, Marie.”

  Damn it all to hell! The blasted woman.

  Chapter Five

  Claire resisted the urge to peek out the window to see Lord Blythe’s expression. Instead she fell back against the squabs and blew out a deep sigh. A lone lock of hair that had come loose from her updo fluttered with her breath. She pushed the errant hair behind her ear and thought of all the curse words her brothers taught her over the years. None were bad enough to convey her feelings.

  Why did it seem that Lord Blythe turned up at the worst times? And she thought her brothers were annoying. They were nothing compared to the hard brown eyes that always seemed to exert a challenge in their dark depths.

  She looked over at her new maid, Marie, who was now sleeping peacefully. Marie had agreed to accompany Claire as far as Paris, where the maid would connect with her family and where Claire would search for a new maid. Hopefully one who was up for an adventure and who wanted to travel to Italy.

  Claire smiled, then chuckled
quietly. The look on Blythe’s face when Marie popped her head out of the coach had been priceless.

  Excited now that she’d shaken Lord Blythe, Claire reached for her small bag to retrieve her latest letter from Gabrielle, her long-time friend, before realizing her letters had been in the bag stolen in Dover. Along with every other important letter and currency she needed.

  Her apprehension threatened to return but she wouldn’t allow it. Whatever obstacles she had to overcome, overcome them she would. Whatever it took to get to Italy, she would do. And once in Italy, Gabrielle would help her.

  As morning gave way to afternoon, Claire entertained herself by watching the scenery roll by and imagining what Paris would be like. Her brothers told her stories from their visits, but she suspected they didn’t tell her everything. Gabrielle had hinted at things—scandalous things, fun things—sparking Claire’s imagination. But even Gabrielle refrained from telling everything, which frustrated Claire, who had been stuck in England for so long with no hope of breaking the chains that bound her.

  But now she was free and she was about to discover Paris herself, then Venice with Gabrielle’s help. Claire knew she was grinning like a fool but she didn’t care. The freedom she thought forever lost to her made her feel like she was floating ten feet above the carriage. She couldn’t wait to meet up with her friend in Italy, but more than that she couldn’t wait to tell Gabrielle her plans. If anyone would help her, her close friend would.

  A clamor of horses’ hooves outside the carriage had Claire sitting up. She brushed her hair out of her eyes, her updo having completely fallen down around her shoulders. The coach rocked to a sudden stop nearly unseating her. Marie snorted and woke with a start, bleary eyes darting around the inside of the coach. Voices came from outside, speaking in such rapid French that Claire was unable to translate nearly as fast. One thing she knew for sure, none of these voices were the cultured, smooth voice of Blythe.

  “What are they saying?” she whispered to Marie.

  Marie cocked her head to listen, her lips thinning. “Highwaymen,” she whispered in English.

  “That’s ridiculous.” Claire feigned a confidence she didn’t feel, as she peeked out the window only to come face to eyeball with a prancing horse. The poor animal’s sides billowed in and out as if he’d been ridden hard. “What would a highwayman want with our little coach?”

  A sharp rap on the door had Claire jumping. A deep voice demanded in French that they open the door.

  Heart beating furiously, her gaze darted about, but there was nowhere to hide in the small, confined space and only one exit.

  “What are we to do?” Marie whispered, her gaze going to the door.

  Claire’s breath came in labored gulps. Her brothers’ dire warnings echoed in her thoughts. Stories of evil men who stole travelers’ possessions. Sometimes they stole the women as well, doing all sorts of things to them. Nicholas and Sebastian never told her what, always ending their tales at that point, but she could imagine. Oh, how she could imagine.

  The thief rapped on the door again, harder this time, rattling the glass as well as her nerves. “Come out!” he bellowed in perfectly understandable French. “Or I will drag you out.”

  Claire clutched her hands together, picturing the ruffian pulling her out by her hair. Oh, dear Lord. Was this how it was going to end? At the hands of a reprobate? A common thief?

  The coach tilted and she squeaked, clutching the seats to stop herself from tipping over. Marie threw her arms out as if she could keep the coach upright. Above them, loud noises and a scraping sound indicated that the thieves had found her trunk.

  Her trunk. Her clothes. Her belongings. She’d painstakingly gone through all three trunks at the inn, condensing her clothes into one and selling the rest to Laurent—which she was terribly proud of because she now had more blunt to pay for the carriage and to handsomely pay a new maid. That these horrible men were to take what remained infuriated her.

  She’d waited all her life to be free of her family, to finally live on her own terms. A few ruffians were not going to snatch it away just as she had her dreams in her hand.

  She pushed Marie to the side with a “Stay here,” and flung herself at the door, releasing the catch and nearly tumbling onto the dirt-packed road.

  Her coachman sat huddled on top, eyes glued to a man pointing a pistol at him.

  More scraping noises came from above. Someone grunted then a loud thud shook the dirt beneath her feet. Claire spun around to find her trunk lying on its side, the lid broken open. Gowns and unmentionables were strewn across the ground.

  “Well, what have we here?” A man rounded the rear corner of the coach.

  Claire took a step back, her bravado fading in the face of such real danger. His face was covered in a white kerchief, and black eyes glittered above it. A scar wound its way around his right eye, disappearing into the snowy scarf, and lending him a terrifying piratical appearance.

  He touched her arm with the barrel of the pistol. Claire held back the tremble that started in her knees and threatened to shake her apart.

  “A mademoiselle,” he purred. The pistol moved up her arm, over her shoulder.

  He stepped closer, so close his knees brushed her skirts. Claire’s heart pounded, her palms grew clammy and she found it hard to draw in another breath without letting loose the whimpers building inside her.

  This wasn’t playacting. Her brothers weren’t going to swoop in and rescue her. She was alone in a foreign country with a dangerous man. Two dangerous men.

  She licked her suddenly dry lips, immediately recognizing her mistake when the action drew his gaze to her mouth. His eyes darkened and the white kerchief billowed in and out a little more rapidly.

  She’d felt panic before. Her husband had been a hard man, physically and mentally abusive, and while she’d felt threatened by him her entire marriage, she’d known he wouldn’t kill her because that would ruin his image and find him in disfavor of the king.

  She wasn’t so sure about these men.

  Setting her back teeth together, she raised her chin a little higher. She knew the ways of men like these, their disgusting inclinations and what they liked to do with women. She was determined that was not going to happen to her or Marie.

  The man chuckled, tapping the barrel of his pistol against her nose. “You have spirit, mon ange,” he said, reverting to heavily accented English.

  Her shoulders snapped into rigidity and for a frightening moment her world went black. “I am not your angel. I’m not your anything.”

  He barked out a surprised laugh, those glittering eyes hard and hot with interest. The cold metal of his pistol moved to her throat. “Cheeky.”

  “Disgusting,” she spat.

  His laughter abruptly stopped. “You best apologize.” The words were said softly but backed by steel.

  Words that poked under Claire’s skin. Words she’d been told a thousand times in her life. Maybe not the exact words but close enough.

  “You don’t tell me what to do.” Oh, Claire, what are you doing? Except she couldn’t stop, because to say nothing and take his verbal abuse would mean she hadn’t really escaped at all. And since she was all alone on this road with nothing but a frightened maid in the carriage and a driver who didn’t have the bullocks to defend her, she decided she would go down fighting and not cower as she’d done for so many years.

  He stepped closer until she could see the red veins in his eyes. He smelled of oily sweat and rank body odor. It took everything she had to stand her ground. Instinct told her to flee, but she pushed it aside. For once in her life she would fight.

  He laid the length of his pistol along her cheek. “Apologize,” he said softly. “Or you will feel more than the barrel of my pistol.”

  This time she couldn’t stop the tremor that raced through her. He smiled, those cold eyes crinkling in mirth and superiority. How many times had she seen the same look in her husband’s eyes? Every time he told her to do somet
hing, knowing she couldn’t contradict him. Every time he saw that she yearned to contradict him and knew she wouldn’t.

  A soft breeze fluttered her skirts. The horses shifted, their harnesses jingling. Birds trilled in the nearby trees and somewhere close by a cow lowed. In the periphery of her vision she glimpsed the other thief watching avidly, his pistol still pointed at her driver.

  Yet she refused to break eye contact with the miscreant in front of her, for that would show weakness and she was sick and tired of swallowing her strength to appear weak because that’s what the men in her life expected.

  And she was determined that one day in France would not be the end for her. She wanted to see Italy, damn it!

  With a cry of rage, all the emotions she’d bottled up inside for too many years rose to the surface. She lunged at the man, clutching his shoulders and bringing her knee up like her sister-in-law taught her. She smashed it in the one vulnerable spot the male species had. His eyes went wide with first shock then unbearable pain, as he folded in on himself. From a distance she heard someone yell her name but she dismissed it as she swept the pistol from the thief’s grip and smacked him on the temple with it.

  His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fell to his side, clutching his male parts.

  Claire stared down at him in disbelief.

  You did it! You fought back and won.

  Her body shook with a combination of elation and the fear she’d been holding at bay. She shook so badly her teeth threatened to chatter, but still she clutched that gun, ready to swing again if he so much as moved.

  But he wasn’t moving.

  Surely she hadn’t killed him. Had she? She was about to drop to her knees to check his breathing when someone plucked the pistol from her hand. She spun around, her fingers curling into fists. Her brothers taught her to punch. She was a girl with not much muscle behind her, but surely she could stun the other thief. Except it wasn’t the other thief, rather Lord Blythe looking down on the man with a pained expression.