Rescuing the Earl (The Seven Curses of London Book 3)

by Lana Williams

  “That is not an acceptable response.”

  “You have no say over—”

  Before Charles could finish, the man’s fist slammed into his cheek, sending him flying back into his chair. Stunned, he slid to the floor, his ears ringing, the sharp pain in his face shocking and unwelcome.

  Adair bent toward him and gathered his shirtfront in his hands and struck him again. “That’s for Grace.” The next blow was to his ribs. “That is for Matthew.”

  The blind rage in Adair’s face had Charles lifting his hands to cover his face and whimpering, hoping to avoid another strike. “No more. Please.”

  “I don’t care who you owe what to.” Adair shook him by his shirt, forcing Charles to look at him. “You got yourself into debt, and you can crawl out of it. But you will not harm one hair on either Viscountess Chivington or her son’s head, directly or indirectly. Do I make myself clear?”

  Gathering his wits, Charles shoved at Adair’s hands, hoping he’d release him, but to no avail.

  “Do you understand?”

  “We cannot leave,” Charles muttered, touching his throbbing face. “We don’t have enough money for our next meal let alone travel.”

  Adair shook his head, his disgust obvious. “Then it appears you need to learn how to beg. I understand the parishes in the country are more generous than here in London. They might even provide you with honest work.”

  “Beg? Work?” Such ridiculous ideas had never entered Charles’s mind.

  “Do not do either anywhere near Grace or Matthew.” He released his hold on Charles’s shirt.

  “Are you mad?” That was the only possible explanation for this man’s behavior.

  The cold smile on Adair’s face made the brandy in Charles’s belly burn. “You don’t want to find out.”

  When Adair rose, Charles drew a deep breath, only to wince at the pain in his side.

  Adair smoothed his suit coat then placed his hand in his pocket, pulling forth a sizeable bundle of notes. “Consider this your one and only payment. Use it wisely, but do so elsewhere. You are not welcome in London, nor at Witley Manor. Do not come within a day’s ride of the viscountess or her son.” He held up the notes with two fingers. “Do you understand?”

  Charles debated his answer despite his pain. If he argued, could he get more money? But as he looked up at Adair, he swallowed the words. There was no empathy in his chiseled features.

  The man took a step closer when Charles didn’t respond immediately. Charles held up his hand, palm out. “Yes, yes, I understand. But tell me, who are you to Grace?”

  It seemed as if regret flashed in the man’s eyes. “A friend.” He bent down once more and held Charles’s gaze. “Don’t force me to pay a second call on you. You won’t like it.”

  He tossed the notes on Charles’s lap, straightened, then strode from the room without a backward glance.

  Charles abandoned his sore face to reach for the notes, thumbing through them, pleased at what he saw.

  Surely there was more where this came from. Yet the ache in his face suggested he’d need to take great care with how he proceeded from this point forward. He had no desire to have another encounter with Adair. He might not survive it.

  Tristan slammed Stannus’s door behind him. The thud of the door rattled the upstairs windows but failed to give him any satisfaction. He glanced up and down the street as he straightened the bowler hat he’d retrieved from the foyer.

  Resisting the urge to spit at the unpleasant taste in his mouth, he walked away from the scene. That didn’t rid the disgust he felt at both himself and Stannus. The man deserved to be beaten to a bloody pulp, of that he had no doubt. He was a weasel, a weak man with an entitlement attitude who had ruined his own life and many others with whom he’d come in contact. But Tristan hated that he’d lost his temper and resorted to violence.

  Langston had sent another report the previous day, outlining interviews with several former servants. The investigator had struck gold when he’d found Stannus’s previous butler.

  The servant who’d been with the Stannus family since before Charles was born had been bitter enough to accept payment in exchange for information. If only half the tales he’d shared of a boy who’d caused enough mischief to get his cousin, Daniel, nearly killed were true, Daniel must’ve had nine lives. It also meant that the likelihood of Stannus ever changing was slim.

  The butler mentioned how Charles’s father had been just as bitter. Being the younger of twin boys by a few minutes had cost him everything. But none of that excused Charles’s behavior as far as Tristan was concerned.

  Tristan couldn’t help but think of Nathaniel, as he was a second son. He’d been treated terribly by their father, who’d told him he didn’t matter so often that Tristan knew Nathaniel had started to believe it.

  It appeared as though Charles had done all he could to endanger his cousin up until Matthew had been born. After that, Charles had made insinuations that the child was illegitimate, but there was no denying the lad’s distinct Stannus blue eyes. When Grace’s husband died, Charles practically danced on his grave. Then he shifted his sights and the boy became his target.

  The old butler had been dismissed with no pension or reference when Stannus’s gambling debts accumulated. Langston paid the former servant well for his information, but Tristan wondered if the man might be interested in a different version of his former job. Tristan had an idea of a way to help those truly in need to keep them from having to resort to begging. The old butler had just the skill set Tristan would need to make the plan a reality.

  Now that his anger, which had erupted when Nathaniel shared the details of Grace’s encounter with Stannus and his wife, eased, he realized he should’ve handled his conversation with Stannus differently.

  But added to his anger had been hurt—hurt that Grace hadn’t told him of the terrible scene herself. Did she not trust him? Then again, if she’d seen the way he’d just acted, she’d know better than to do so.

  His temper always caused him to lash out in the heat of the moment. Just like his father. The realization caused his stomach to churn. Who was he kidding? His similarity to his father was inescapable, inside and out. There was no changing a leopard’s spots. He was who he was.

  The thought brought a deep despair. He’d tried time and again to control his rage only to fail. It was no use. True change was impossible. At least for him. The encounter with Charles felt as if it had been the final nail in the coffin. He’d proven he couldn’t hold back his anger. And if he couldn’t manage that, he had no business being anywhere near Grace or Matthew. It would unleash, sooner or later.

  The idea of watching the respect and admiration in their eyes disappear when he acted thusly caused his steps to falter. The only solution to this dilemma was to keep his distance.

  A scowl twisted his lips as his mood darkened along with the stormy sky. Rain began to fall.

  “How about this silk?” Katherine Flitchard, the modiste’s assistant, asked. “It’s grey, which would be appropriate for half-mourning, but holds a hint of blue to make it unique.”

  Grace studied the fabric in the mirror in the dressmaker’s shop as Katherine held it up. “I like the color very much.” She’d stayed at home the past three days, both to bolster her defenses as well as to allow any talk of what Charles had said at the party to diminish. She’d decided a new gown might help her confidence, and she’d wanted to see how Katherine was faring.

  While Grace still felt uncertain about remaining in London with the constant threat of Charles, now that she knew Matthew wished to stay, it made her determined to try even harder to find a way to do so. Unfortunately, no solution had come to mind as to how to deal with Charles.

  “Not everyone can wear it, but with your dark hair, it will look stunning.” Katherine’s smile sparkled in her eyes as she readjusted the spectacles on her nose. “May I suggest a less modest neckline with this gown? Nothing excessive, of course, but a little lower to hint
at your curves?”

  Heat filled Grace’s cheeks at the thought even as her heartbeat sped. “I don’t know...” Yet the idea appealed in many ways. She was a young woman despite her widowed status. There was no need for her to dress like a matron. But what made her seriously consider agreeing was Tristan’s possible reaction. She knew it was wrong of her to even think of it since his engagement had only recently ended, but she couldn’t help it. Not after the taste of his lips or the feel of his hands along her skin.

  Four days had passed since she’d seen him. She worried that he’d heard the lies Charles had spouted at the ball. Did he believe grief truly had made her unstable? Surely not. Perhaps he was merely keeping his distance as they’d discussed, allowing news of his broken engagement to fade.

  “A lower neckline couldn’t hurt, as long as it isn’t overly so.” Grace shared a look with Katherine in the mirror. “I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression.”

  “I’m thinking more of a ‘I’m an experienced woman and I know what I want.’ Nothing vulgar or distasteful.”

  “That sounds perfect.” Grace turned from the mirror to face Katherine. “I am very lucky to have found you to assist me.”

  A shadow crossed the woman’s eyes before she quickly looked away. “It is my job to help you.”

  Grace reached out and took her hand. “I hope you realize that I have come to consider you my friend.”

  Katherine glanced at the doorway as though worried Mrs. Danby would stride through at any moment to berate her. “I appreciate that more than I can say.” She squeezed Grace’s hand, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am not certain how much longer I’ll be here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Katherine shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Grace could clearly see the concern on Katherine’s face. While she’d sensed that her new friend might be hiding something previously, now she could see the fear that drove her. “Please know that if there is anything I can do to help, I would be happy to do so. Anything at all.”

  Her wobbly smile made Grace hold her hand tighter. “You see—”

  “Why was I not informed that the viscountess was here?” Mrs. Danby brushed aside the curtain that provided the fitting room with some privacy.

  Katherine dropped Grace’s hand and stepped back, her demeanor changing completely as she faded into the background.

  “I wanted to view the fabric choices again before I asked for you,” Grace said, hoping to ensure Katherine didn’t have to face the temperamental modiste’s wrath. “I requested that Miss Flitchard not interrupt you until I was ready. I didn’t want to waste your valuable time while I pondered my options.”

  “Humph.” Mrs. Danby glared at Katherine, as though still considering whether she was to blame.

  “I have decided on this fabric,” Grace began, pointing to the one Katherine had suggested. She did her best to flatter the modiste while still praising Katherine as she shared her decision.

  By the time she’d ordered two more gowns, Grace realized she was starting to gain confidence, at least when it came to fashion. Now if only she could become less indecisive in other aspects of her life.

  She took her leave from the shop, unable to say anything more to Katherine other than whisper, “Call on me anytime.”

  Whether Katherine would do so was uncertain. She seemed intent on keeping her distance and her secrets. But as Grace had learned over the last few weeks, reaching out for assistance from friends was both helpful and comforting.

  Katherine was helping Grace find her own likes and dislikes, finding her opinions—finding her true self. That was priceless and Grace would love to somehow return the favor. Included in Grace’s order had been material that Katherine had admired. Grace intended to have it sent to the seamstress later with Mrs. Danby none the wiser.

  With her maid close behind, Grace stepped out of the shop onto the busy walk to look for her carriage.

  “What do you think you’re about?” an angry voice demanded in her ear.

  She turned in alarm to see Charles standing beside her. Fear caught in her throat, robbing her thoughts. His cheek and eye were swollen and turning various shades of purple. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened.

  Before she could ask, he grasped her arm and forced her to walk in front of him, far too close for comfort. “I’ve some things to say and since you refuse to allow me to visit our home, I have no choice but to say them here.”

  As always, he turned the situation around so everything was her fault. The urge to give into his demands threatened, a small voice in her head insisting life would be so much easier if she did.

  But no. She was a different person than she had been when she’d left Witley Manor over a month ago. She wrenched her arm free, only to have him grab her again.

  “My lady?” her maid called out. “Shall I alert the footman?”

  “Yes,” Grace said even as Charles responded with an equally insistent, “No.”

  “No need to have the servants witness what I have to say, is there?” His eyes bore into hers, a desperation in their depths she’d never seen before. “I have a quiet place to speak in mind. Come along.”

  Grace dug in her heels and pulled her arm free again. “I am not going anywhere with you. Tell me what you have to say and be gone.”

  “You would have me speak here?” He glanced about at the other shoppers, many of whom looked at them with thinly veiled interest. “In such a public place?”

  “I am not speaking with you in private.” She lifted her chin, proud of herself for standing up to him. “Say what you will and be off.”

  His eyes narrowed, a snarl making his thin lips twitch. “You are going to welcome Lynette and I into the house on Grosvenor Square.”

  “I am certainly not.”

  He leaned closer, his nostrils flaring at her refusal. “You will, else I am going to have you declared an unfit mother.”

  “What?” Incredulous as to the depths to which he’d sink, she could only stare at him.

  “Obviously, grief has mottled your judgment. Why else would you put your son in danger by taking off in the middle of the night and subjecting him to such perilous conditions along the road? You placed dear Matthew in terrible danger. I worry for his safety.”

  “How dare you say such things. I saved him from you.” Outrage had her entire body trembling.

  “You have obviously been far too strained by your loss as evidenced by the crazed notion that I put the young lad in danger. These ridiculous stories you’ve concocted will only serve to prove my point.”

  “You are mad.” Yet his threats stirred her worst fear. Have Matthew taken from her? Could he somehow manage to do that?

  “You can make this easy or difficult. The choice is yours.”

  She swallowed hard, her mind spinning as she realized there was only one answer. “No. You will keep your distance from Matthew and me. Stay away from us.”

  “You don’t belong in that house. You are no viscountess.” The loathing on his face caused her heart to race.

  “Yes, I am,” she said as confidently as she could muster despite her fear.

  “You will regret this.” He reached for her again even as Frederick, the footman, ran toward them.

  Charles hesitated, but his resolve faltered at the bulk of Frederick rushing toward him. He glared at Grace. “Don’t think this is over. Not for you or that boy.”

  He hurried away, leaving Grace standing on the walk, heart pounding.

  “Are you all right, my lady?” Frederick asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Shall I give chase?” He seemed eager to do so.

  “No. I wouldn’t want to put you in danger nor would I know what to do if you caught him.” She took Frederick’s arm, needing to steady herself after the encounter. “But I would like you to take me to the Earl of Adair’s. I must speak to him about this matter.”

  “Of course.” Frederick’s size helped pa
rt the crowd as they made their way to the carriage where the maid waited.

  Grace realized she wasn’t so different from Katherine. Tristan had offered to help several times, but she hadn’t wanted him to. Whether she liked it or not, this situation wasn’t one she could resolve on her own. Asking for help didn’t make her less of a person. Rather it made her smart for recognizing that she needed assistance.

  Many wonderful things were happening in her life right now, and she refused to allow Charles to steal them from her. She glanced back over her shoulder to make certain he hadn’t decided to make another appearance even as she patted herself on the back for not giving into his demands.

  After all, she was a viscountess, and it was past time she started acting like one.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “When ‘giving’ is the order of the day, and benevolence, sickening at the sight of privation and distress that seems endless, shuts her eyes and bestows her gifts on all comers, then is the cadger’s harvest, that he may pursue his shameful avocation with comparative impunity.”

  ~The Seven Curses of London

  Tristan stared out the window of his library, head pounding. He’d spent the past two days since his visit to Stannus entombed in his home alone with his thoughts and too much brandy.

  All for naught.

  He’d solved nothing, nor had he quelled his desire to be with Grace.

  He knew he needed to rejoin life, follow up with his brother to see if Rutter had surfaced, and return to the project he intended to implement for beggars. But he had yet to convince himself he cared about any of that.

  This ridiculous longing to see Grace wouldn’t go away. Yet he feared it would be his undoing—that if she was within arm’s reach, he’d grab hold and never let go.

  After proving to himself that he hadn’t escaped his temper nor was he capable of overcoming it, he had no right to be near her. The black mood that held him in its depths only served to confirm that he was not for her. His temper would smother her goodness in addition to any feelings she had for him.