Rescuing the Earl
Book III of The Seven Curses of London Series
A Victorian Romance
Lana Williams
Rescuing the Earl
A tormented earl
A gentle widow
Both in need of rescue
After several suspicious accidents nearly kill her young son, Grace Stannus, a widowed viscountess, and her son, Matthew, flee their home in the dark of night, their identities concealed. Her predicament goes from bad to worse when she’s left ill and penniless alongside a deserted road in the pouring rain, not realizing the danger she faces is just beginning.
Rather than celebrating his betrothal, Tristan Hawke, the Earl of Adair, seeks refuge at his country estate, hoping to convince himself he hasn’t made a mistake by proposing marriage for all the wrong reasons. His world is upended when his coach strikes a woman. Fearing the worst, Tristan takes Grace and Matthew to his home.
As his lovely and mysterious guest recovers, Tristan is charmed by how kind Grace is--the exact type of person he avoids for fear his temper will crush her. But his efforts to maintain his distance are thwarted by his houseguests as they force him to consider that a gentle spirit might be the perfect antidote to his darkness.
Grace refuses Tristan’s efforts to aid her, certain she must stand on her own, especially since the handsome earl is engaged. But her determination isn’t enough to keep her son safe.
As passions ignite, Grace and Tristan must determine if they can rescue each other from their past demons before fate forces them apart.
Other books in The Seven Curses of London series:
TRUSTING THE WOLFE, a novella, Book .5 on Amazon
LOVING THE HAWKE, Book 1 on Amazon
CHARMING THE SCHOLAR, Book 2 on Amazon
Want to make sure you know when my next book is released? Sign up for my newsletter.
Contents:
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
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Dancing Under the Mistletoe
Other Books by Lana
Author's Note
Copyright
Chapter One
“There are those amongst the greatest and most famous who have been beggars, and many of the mightiest, groaning under the crushing burden of distracting power and unruly riches, have bemoaned their fate and envied the careless beggar...”
~The Seven Curses of London
III. Professional Beggars
By James Greenwood, 1869
London, England, July 1870
Grace Stannus, Viscountess Chivington, drew a shallow breath, hoping to avoid another coughing fit. The telltale rattle in her chest was growing worse, as was her fever. She glanced up and down the unfamiliar road, fear gnawing at the pit of her stomach. The rain continued unrelentingly as darkness fell. Her umbrella was long gone, and her hat was more decorative than practical, providing little protection from the inclement weather.
“Are we lost, Mama?”
“Of course not.” She said a silent prayer that her words were true as she gave her five-year-old son’s cold hand a comforting squeeze. “We’ll find the vicar’s home and have a nice warm supper and a clean bed for the night.”
“How much farther is it?” Matthew’s vivid blue eyes squinted in the rain so he could look up at her, his features so like his father’s, God rest his soul.
“From what the man at the train station said, it’s just down this road a short distance.” But Grace feared she’d taken a wrong turn along the way, for no buildings were in sight. Not that she could see far in the steady downpour.
She adjusted her grip on the one bag the thief who’d stolen their luggage had left behind two days past. Unfortunately, it only contained a small portion of the money she’d gathered prior to their departure. The rest had been taken with their other bags. Her disgust at the incident had yet to fade. Had it been only five days since they’d left home? It felt much longer.
With so little money remaining, she didn’t want to spend any on a room at the small village inn near the train station, hence they were walking to the vicar’s home. As the daughter of a vicar, she hoped the man would be charitable enough to offer them a hot meal and a warm bed for the night before they continued their journey to London the next day.
Was this how beggars felt? Moving from one town to another, hoping for handouts that were few and far between? She shuddered with fear at the thought.
“I don’t want to go on a grand adventure anymore. Can we go home now?” The whine in Matthew’s voice, along with his words, brought tears to her eyes.
She didn’t want to continue either. She was exhausted and ill both physically and from worry. The series of unfortunate events that had forced them on this path had yet to improve, no matter how many prayers she said.
“We are going to make a new home with Cousin Molly and her family in London, remember? You’ll like her. She has a daughter your age.” Grace swallowed against the lump in her throat, wondering for the hundredth time if she’d done the right thing.
She and Matthew had left home in the middle of the night, sneaking away like thieves. Despite six years of marriage, she still had a difficult time thinking of herself as viscountess, let alone a widowed one. But with Daniel’s death fourteen months ago, Matthew now held the title and would inherit a significant fortune when he came of age.
Since Daniel’s cousin, Charles, and his wife, Lynette, descended on them two months ago, Matthew had narrowly escaped three ‘accidents.’ Grace might be a simple vicar’s daughter from a small country parish, but she wasn’t stupid. While she had no proof, she knew beyond a doubt that Charles had somehow arranged for each of the mishaps.
First had been the poisonous snake in the conservatory that had nearly bitten Matthew. Then a horse escaped the stables at the worst possible moment and nearly trampled him. The final incident had been when he’d almost drowned in the pond in the middle of the night while ‘sleepwalking.’ Matthew had never sleepwalked before in his short life. Grace was convinced he’d been carried to the pond and thrown in. Thank goodness he’d awakened. Who knew what Charles would come up with next in an effort to eliminate Matthew so he could have the title and the money?
No. Escape was her only option. No one would believe her claims—not that she had anyone in whom she could confide. Charles told anyone who’d listen that she was an overprotective mother. But she knew the truth—Charles would stop at nothing to claim the family inheritance. Daniel had mentioned several times how much Charles resented him. Grace could only assume that Matthew had now become Charles’s target. Unfortunately, she had no one to turn to for help.
Looking back over her married years, she realized she’d allowed herself to become too isolated and distant. Daniel had discouraged her from finding friends in the area. Even the servants kept their distance and now sho
wed more loyalty to Charles and his wife than her. That was all her fault. She’d never been comfortable in her position at Witley Manor, the sprawling country house where they’d lived.
So she had packed and left after planning their escape for days. She intended to become a better mother, a stronger woman, for Matthew’s sake. Charles’s actions had made her realize that complacency had no place in a widowed mother’s life. She needed to engage with others—with life—and help Matthew grow into a good person capable of fulfilling his duties as viscount. While proud she’d made it this far, she was well aware how much farther they had to go. Despite her worry and poor health, she was determined to make this venture a success and stand on her own.
The weather hadn’t aided their journey. It had been unseasonably cool with significant rainfall the past three days. The chilly temperatures and dampness had worsened her cough and subsequent fever. Surely a good night’s rest was all she needed. Since the theft of their belongings, she’d slept with one eye open and was exhausted.
While their reception at her Cousin Molly’s home was uncertain, Grace knew they couldn’t remain at Witley Manor. Unfortunately, notifying her cousin had been out of the question for fear Charles would find out and follow. She could only hope they’d be welcomed upon their arrival.
“Wait.” She peered through the rain and dusky light, certain she saw an approaching light. “Someone is coming. Stay back while I wave them down and see if they can provide us with a ride or at least directions.”
Releasing Matthew’s hand with a reassuring smile and a pat on his cheek, she stepped onto the deserted, muddy road, her heart filling with hope for the first time in days. The approaching coach would surely be able to assist them.
Tristan Hawke, the Earl of Adair, groaned in frustration as the coach slowed to a halt. He lifted the window covering and called out, “What seems to be the problem?”
The groom hurried down from beside the driver. “James, the coachman, suggests we turn back and seek shelter for the night, my lord. The road is in a terrible mess.”
Rain had not been part of Tristan’s plan for this quick trip to Crawford House, his country estate in Northamptonshire. But he’d had to escape from London, however briefly.
After all, he was certain he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Offering for Lady Samantha had seemed a logical, well thought-out decision. Never mind that it no longer felt as such. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to stem the tide of regret that poured through him. A man was entitled to step away to contemplate a failure in judgment that would soon result in him taking a wife he didn’t care for, wasn’t he?
Now was not the time to worry over that. His first priority was to arrive at Crawford House, the closest thing he had to a sanctuary. He couldn’t be gone from London long, but a few nights at the country house would calm his soul as it had so many times in the past. Marrying before his upcoming birthday in a few short weeks would ensure the estate would remain his but the cost was high.
The deplorable weather had slowed their pace and now dusk was falling, making visibility even poorer.
“Tell James I appreciate his opinion but to press on since we’re so near Crawford House.”
“Very well, my lord.” The groom’s voice could be heard calling to the driver.
By the grumbling sound emanating from the coachman, Tristan knew the man was less than pleased at Tristan’s order. With a frown, Tristan pulled up the shade once more to study the road but could see very little in the dim light and pouring rain. They were within a few miles of their destination. Surely they could make it. They had to. He refused to spend the night at some godforsaken inn, which would surely be full to the brim with travelers. Not when his home was so close.
The groom reappeared at the window, his reluctance obvious in his hunched shoulders and wringing hands. “I am terribly sorry, my lord, but James asked me to advise you the road is quite muddy here, and he fears he cannot guarantee your safety.”
The all too familiar heat of anger filled him, trained into him by his father from an early age. How he hated that heat. Hated how it started in his face, spread into his chest, narrowing his vision and muffling both thought and sound. Hated how he lacked the ability to control it, despite his concerted efforts to do so. Even worse was what he knew it foretold—a lashing out at someone or something he would only regret. Although he knew his anger at his behavior only added to the problem, he couldn’t release it.
The breath he drew didn’t help either. “Tell James to drive the damned coach.” The anger in his voice had the groom stepping back. “The quicker we get there, the better the conditions will be. Standing here discussing it is a waste of time.”
“Of course, my lord.” The servant scrambled up beside the driver and in short order, they were off again, the pace much quicker than before.
Tristan settled back into the tufted bench, trying to shrug his shoulders to release the tension gathered there. Guilt slid into the place of the anger. Were conditions so bad that he should’ve taken the coachman’s advice? As the thought entered his mind, the coach lurched to the side only to right itself again.
Tristan braced himself until the conveyance gained momentum and kept to the road. He risked lifting one hand to raise the sash again and glance out. The downpour had increased from what little he could see. The echo of the driver’s voice reached him, but Tristan couldn’t make out his words.
When the coach pitched to the side once again before sliding to a stop, one of the horses neighing in alarm as the driver called out. Tristan opened the door and glanced out, unable to tell what had happened. They were still on the road at any rate. The coach sat level, so it appeared to be unharmed. What on earth could be the problem?
He waited a second or two but when neither the groom nor the driver came, he stepped out into the rain, his boots sinking into the mud with an alarming sucking sound.
“What—” Before he could finish his question, he spotted the servants huddled over a figure lying on the edge of the road. He hurried forward, his heart pounding as he knelt beside them.
“I am sorry,” James said. “Terribly sorry. I didn’t see her until it was too late.”
A pale face came into focus, the delicate features unmistakably those of a woman. His heart pounding, Tristan leaned closer, searching for injuries, but it was impossible to see much of anything.
“What happened?” he asked as his gaze took in her stillness.
“I-I’m not certain. I didn’t see her. I-I don’t know if one of the horses clipped her or if it was the coach.”
James’ distress caused Tristan’s own concern to spiral. After all, he was well aware of who was truly to blame for this. The fault was squarely his.
Tristan glanced at the groom. “Fetch one of the carriage lights so we can better see her and an umbrella as well. Quickly.” He knelt beside the unconscious woman and bent forward to listen near her mouth, hoping she still breathed.
“Mama?”
The voice from the side of the road had Tristan glancing up to find a young boy standing nearby, his eyes big in his rounded face.
Oh no.
Tristan’s heart stopped as the lad drew closer. Surely his orders hadn’t caused the death of this little boy’s mother.
The groom returned with the light and the umbrella, shielding the woman from the rain.
A quiet moan had Tristan glancing at the woman again, uncertain if he’d imagined it.
“Thank the Lord. She’s alive,” James muttered.
Tristan drew a relieved breath then caught the frightened gaze of the child, wanting to reassure him despite the heaviness of worry in his own heart. “We’re going to take care of her and you as well.”
The lad nodded and stepped closer, his attention riveted on his mother.
“Let us get them out of this weather and into the coach.” Tristan gently lifted the woman into his arms and stood. “Come along,” he said to the boy. “We’ll need your
assistance.” He hoped his words would convince the child they meant no harm—or at least no further harm.
Attempting to be gentle with both the woman and her son was nearly impossible when all he wanted to do was strike something in frustration. How could he have allowed this to happen?
He turned to the coach, hoping the lad would follow.
“Wait,” the boy said. “We need our things.” He ran toward the side of the road and returned, lugging a large bag.
The groom took it from the boy and managed to hold the light and the umbrella as well. He set the bag down to open the coach door to allow Tristan to climb inside with the woman in his arms.
Tristan hesitated, realizing he couldn’t simply place her on the bench, not when the terrible road conditions caused the coach to lurch and sway. She’d end up on the floor.
Instead he sat and continued to hold her in his arms. The soft glow of the carriage light revealed her delicate, feminine features. She was quite beautiful, he realized with surprise, her lashes a dark sweep against alabaster skin, matching her brown hair. Her nose was slim and straight, and the length of her chin gave her face a heart-shaped appearance. She moaned once more, the sound both reassuring and concerning at the same time.
The groom lifted the boy into the coach along with the satchel. “Will you need my assistance, my lord?”
“No.” At least he didn’t think so. Then again, he wasn’t certain of anything at the moment. “Help James as best you can.”
The lad stared at his mother’s still form.
“My home isn’t far.” Tristan tried to think of comforting words he could offer the child. But in truth, he had no idea what to say. “We’ll have you warm and dry in no time.”
“Is Mama going to be all right?” The boy eased forward to gently touch his mother’s cheek.
Tristan hesitated, not wanting to lie yet wanting to reassure him. “We’ll take a closer look once we get her to my home, shall we?”
Rescuing the Earl (The Seven Curses of London Book 3) Page 1
