Always Come Home (Emerson 1)

by Maureen Driscoll

  ALSO BY MAUREEN DRISCOLL

  THE KELLINGTON SERIES

  NEVER TURN AWAY (KELLINGTON, BOOK SIX)

  NEVER DENY YOUR HEART (KELLINGTON, BOOK FIVE)

  NEVER RUN FROM LOVE (KELLINGTON, BOOK FOUR)

  NEVER WAGER AGAINST LOVE (KELLINGTON, BOOK THREE)

  NEVER MISS A CHANCE (KELLINGTON, BOOK TWO)

  NEVER A MISTRESS, NO LONGER A MAID (KELLINGTON, BOOK ONE)

  THE POLITICAL SATIRE

  DATING GEORGE CLOONEY

  ALWAYS COME HOME

  By

  Maureen Driscoll

  To my mom.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Road to Wiltshire, December 1822

  Colin Emerson, the Earl of Ridgeway, had forgotten what it was like to travel by mail coach. He didn’t like to think he was the typical pampered aristocrat, though he knew his life had been easy compared to most people in the damned, overcrowded coach. He knew he should be grateful that he was seated inside and not on top in the frigid weather like his valet Stemple. He’d felt bad when Stemple had insisted on taking the seat, though at least the air his servant was breathing was less rancid than what he was being subjected to, courtesy of whichever passenger had given up bathing.

  Colin was fortunate that he’d been able to secure the fare for even the mail coach. At the age of thirty, he had been the Earl of Ridgeway for three years, ever since his father had been killed after being thrown from his horse. It had not been the animal’s fault. The old earl had been drunk, in a rage and had likely beaten his horse one time too many.

  More than one person had whispered that the horse had done the family a favor.

  Colin hadn’t said such a thing, though he’d been estranged from his brute of a father. He’d seen enough death to not wish it upon anyone. Though at least in his father’s case, it had been instantaneous, instead of the prolonged suffering he’d witnessed in the war.

  Not all of war’s devastation could be measured in deaths, of course. Sometimes the damage lasted years or more. His valet Stemple had been badly burned down the right side of his body, including his face. Colin had met him in a hospital shortly after the Battle of Waterloo. He’d been impressed by the young man’s bravery and determination. After the war, they’d each been headed to a better life. Stemple to his fiancé, Colin to a life independent of his despot of a father.

  Yet, as so often happens, life didn’t work out for either as planned.

  Stemple’s fiancé had cried off within days of his return. And when customers began staying away from his family’s country shop because of his injuries, he invented a story about a better opportunity elsewhere.

  Colin’s life hadn’t been that bleak. There were no injuries to bar his return to his former life of indolence. Just a raging lunatic of a father who’d gambled away the estate’s fortune, which had never been that hale to begin with. The old earl had hated Colin for defying him and going to war. It wasn’t that he’d feared his heir would die. He’d simply believed being a soldier was the duty of the lower classes. An earl’s son was too good for the military and it reflected poorly on the entire family. Had it not been for his sisters, Colin would have left England upon his return from battle, never to return in his father’s lifetime.

  But there were his sisters and he could not desert them.

  The old earl had cut him off without a farthing, so Colin had spent a few years supplementing his modest inheritance by gaming and staying with friends for extended holidays. They never seemed to mind. Most of his friends were so wealthy they didn’t even think of the cost. And, after all, Colin was known for his wit and way with women. He was welcome as long as he could keep everyone amused and drunk. Which had never been a problem on either front.

  However, since taking over the earldom – and responsibility for his youngest sisters – Colin needed a better solution to his financial problems. He’d decided to wed a rich wife and had spent the past few Seasons in search of such a bride.

  Unfortunately, he’d been too selective in the beginning, turning away women with more hair than wit. He knew he had to get leg-shackled, but he wanted to at least like his wife. And he couldn’t imagine spending decades with any of the simpering debutantes shoved his way by families hoping to turn a daughter into a countess.

  But as Colin’s finances had deteriorated, he realized he couldn’t be all that choosy. He began lowering his standards to the extent where he would be satisfied with a wife who would not make him wish to drink himself to death, as long as she was accompanied by a fat purse that would set the estate and its inhabitants to rights again.

  However, the mamas of the daughters he’d slighted had long memories. And this year’s crop of debutantes had set their sights on the few available dukes and marquesses. Colin also had to compete with earls who had more money than he, which meant all of them.

  As his financial situation had worsened, his valet had quit. Colin couldn’t blame the man. He was not the type of peer who believed the honor of dressing him should be payment enough. The man wanted real wages and certainly deserved them.

  Shortly after his valet left, Colin and Stemple had crossed paths again. It was impossible to search for a wealthy wife while looking like one had just rolled out of bed, so Colin offered Stemple the job, though he had no prior experience. However, Stemple did have two things going for him. One was that Colin admired the man. The other was that Stemple was so anxious to find a position that he was willing to overlook the lack of wages. The two had lived together in Colin’s small apartment whilst the search for a wife had been ongoing.

  When Colin’s last hope had married someone else and the landlord had finally stopped extending credit, the earl and his servant set out for the family estate in Wiltshire. They barely had enough money for the fare and only then because Colin had been lucky in one last night of gaming. Colin did not know how he’d pay Stemple or the few remaining servants at home. He had wanted to bring Christmas gifts for his sisters, but that had been far beyond his reach.

  So while his arse was sore and his nose had smelled kinder scents near a pig sty, he was thankful to at least be out of London and on his way home again.

  Things could be worse.

  Then they became worse.

  As the coach drew to yet another halt in some small hamlet – a decided disadvantage to riding the mail coach was that it tended to deliver mail – Colin became aware of a disagreement outside that was growing in intensity. Anxious to stretch his legs and to breathe some fresh air, he disembarked, only to find Stemple in the middle of the argument.

  Or at least he was the subject of it. For the valet was saying nothing while those around him were arguing.

  The loudest of the participants seemed to be a squat man almost wider than he was tall. He was yelling at the coach driver when not spitting out his tobacco, though a time or two he did both simultaneously. “That bloke will give my Grace nightmares, he will,” he said, pointing to Stemple. “He shouldn’t leave the house looking the way he does.”

  “But ‘e’s covered up ‘is face as much as ‘e’s able,” said the coachman.

  Indeed, Stemple had scarves wrapped around his head. Colin knew they were not there just because of the cold.

  “But not enough,” said the arse with the tobacco. “The wind blew it back and me Grace went into hysterics, she did.”

  “It was horrible,” said the woman, who was doing her best to look distraught while also preening from the attention.

  Colin stepped into the fray. “This man,” he said in the coldest tone of voice he’d ever heard his father use, “is my valet. He was wounded fighting for our country. I can find nothing wrong with his appearance.”

  “You
must be daft,” said Grace. “He looks like a monster.”

  “I apologize,” said Stemple, “and shall take more care in keeping myself covered.”

  “Stemple,” said Colin. “You are not the one who should be apologizing.”

  “’Tis too late for an apology,” said Grace, completely missing Colin’s point. “I have only to look at him and will likely swoon.”

  “Then I suggest you avert your eyes,” said Colin, ready to take a swing at the man accompanying her since he would never strike a woman.

  “I want him off the coach,” said the man.

  “Oi!” said the coachman. “I don’t ‘ave time for this.”

  “We paid good money for our seats,” said the tobacco spitter. “It’s him or us.”

  “He can take my seat inside,” said Colin. “I shall sit on the roof.”

  “I don’t want the likes of him in here,” said the passenger whom Colin had pegged as the non-bather.

  Colin turned to the man. “My only regret would be subjecting him to the stench of the coach, as well as the ignorance of those who cannot appreciate his sacrifice.”

  “My lord,” said Stemple. “Pray do not bother yourself. I shall disembark and find another way to your estate.”

  “My lord, is it?” said the non-bather, with narrowed eyes. “Who are you tryin’ to gull? There’s no way a lord would ride the mail coach. Maybe the both of you are confidence men trying to swindle people by claiming to be toffs.”

  “If there was any money in it, I might have a go at it,” said Colin. “But I assure you that I am a genuine earl and this man is my valet.”

  “What would a toff be doing on the mail coach?” his accuser demanded.

  “Choking down bile, mostly,” said Colin. “But, I am the Earl of Ridgeway. We have paid for our seats and as much as I hate to cause anyone distress, the journey must go on.”

  “If you was that worried about causing us distress, you never would have brung him with you,” said the tobacco spitter.

  “You wholly misunderstand my meaning,” said Colin. “I am only sorry to have subjected Stemple to, as my odiferous acquaintance put it, the likes of you.”

  “My lord…” said Stemple.

  Colin turned to the coachman. “We have paid for our tickets, yet my friend has been subjected to cruelty and harassment. What are you going to do about it?”

  The coachman scratched his head. Colin did not want to know what vermin might be the cause of the itch. “I need to get back on the road,” said the coachman. “I’ve lost enough time as it is.”

  “I am the Earl of Ridgeway. I demand that you re-seat my friend.”

  “I never seen no earl ride the mail coach,” reiterated the non-bather. “Throw the both of them off.”

  “Yeah,” said Grace. “They can walk the rest of the way.”

  “Is this really the way you’d treat an earl?” Colin winced inwardly because that was exactly the type of thing his father would have said. But, damn it, he needed to get home.

  By this time, everyone both inside the coach and on top of it was giving the driver his or her opinion. The gist of it was they didn’t give a damn who stayed or went as long as the coach began its journey again.

  “I’ll not be thwarted,” said Colin. “You can put this lady and her escort in my place in the coach and I’ll ride up top with my valet. But you’re going to solve this problem immediately.”

  Which is exactly what the coachman did when he drove off, leaving Colin, Stemple and their luggage on the side of the road.

  “The bloody bastard didn’t even give us our blunt back,” said Colin.

  “If I might speak freely, my lord?”

  “Stop ‘my lording’ me, Stemple. I have just stranded us in the middle of nowhere. The least you can do is call me Ridgeway.”

  “My…Ridgeway. This is what comes from having a gentleman’s gentleman who cannot be seen in public. You should hire someone else.”

  “I do not wish to hire anyone else. You have been invaluable to me and good company, as well. I also owe you a fortune in wages. Well, I would if I paid better. As it is, I only owe you the paltry sum I still cannot afford. And now we shall go hungry and, unless I am very much mistaken, be snowed upon. Where the devil are we, anyway?”

  He looked around at the small Hampshire village in which they’d just been ingloriously dumped. They were in front of a coaching inn. The village green contained one church and two taverns. Three, if you counted the one at the inn.

  “Emerson, is that you?”

  Colin turned to find himself facing Edgar Ellsworth, Viscount Clayton, a well-dressed man of middling height and fair, thinning hair. Now Colin’s day had truly taken a turn for the worse. “Ellsworth,” he said.

  “Clayton, as you well know. I’m the viscount until my pater departs this mortal coil, making me an earl. Did I just see you get thrown off the mail coach? How extraordinary.”

  “They insulted Stemple.”

  Clayton took a long look at Stemple’s face, shuddering just a bit. “Get that in the war, did you?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Forgive me,” said Colin. “Victor Stemple, this is Edgar Ellsworth, Viscount Clayton. He and I were at school together. Until he got sent down, what was it…two or three times?”

  “Emerson, did you just introduce me to your valet?” asked Clayton, amused.

  “Lord Ridgeway,” said Stemple, purposely using Colin’s title to counter Clayton’s lack of respect, “should I inquire about the coach schedule?”

  Clayton snorted. “That’s right, you’re Ridgeway, now. Heard the old earl finally died, though I always thought it would be in a duel of some sort. Word is he left you saddled with any number of debts. No wonder you were on the mail coach. And I can save your man the trouble. There’s no coach for the rest of the day. You don’t want to stay at the inn, unless you like to be flea-bitten. I’m hosting a little gathering up at the manor. Would you care to join us?”

  Colin would rather sleep in the inn’s stables than spend another minute in Clayton’s company, but it wouldn’t be fair to Stemple. And he already owed his valet enough as it was. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, hating the way Clayton smirked at the obvious lie.

  Colin couldn’t afford the flea-bitten inn and everyone in the ton knew it.

  This was going to be a very long night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ava Conway was not one to give in to pessimism. She could find hope in almost all circumstances. Even when she was keeping the landlord at bay as she was taking care of her father in his final days, she had faith in what lay ahead. Even when she began her post as a governess for two of the most willful girls in England, she looked forward to one day being able to save enough money to travel. She didn’t even want to go that far. Brighton would be nice. And perhaps, one day, Paris. Anywhere but the house in which she was now employed.

  To be fair, it wasn’t always that bad. She had her own bed and enough food to eat. She even had a friend, Maude, who was one of the cook’s assistants. She had five months of wages saved up and in just another year, she would have enough to take a short holiday.

  If she lasted that long.

  For while the worst of her duties usually entailed putting up with the antics of two spoiled sixteen-year-old twins with the dispositions of rabid raccoons, her life had become that much more challenging now that their brother Lord Clayton had returned.

  Their parents, the earl and countess, were in London. But with Clayton in residence, the estate had turned into one continuous house party. It was nothing short of scandalous to do so with sixteen-year-old girls at home. But his lordship cared little for propriety and the girls were in alt. Ava herself had never cared all that much about appearances. As the daughter of a university professor, she had not grown up in society, but had been close enough to laugh at its peculiarities. However, she did not want the girls to endanger either their persons or their reputations.

  Sometimes
she felt like she was the only one in the household who felt that way.

  The twins, Angelique and Anastasia, were determined to partake in the festivities as much as possible. Clayton was negligent enough to let them and the staff was in fear of being dismissed without a character if they interfered.

  To complicate matters further, Ava didn’t have to worry about just the girls. The guests – and Lord Clayton – thought a governess was fair game for amorous adventures. She spent quite a bit of time fending off the advances of over-privileged lords, including the current master of the house. Fortunately, she’d accompanied her father on enough archaeological digs in dangerous parts of the world that she knew how to defend herself. That didn’t mean she was safe, of course. But, she was better able to take care of herself than the typical miss.

  It was now but a few days before Christmas and Lord Clayton had decided to have one last party. The girls were determined to enjoy themselves to the fullest before their parents returned for the holiday.

  “Conway! Come over here and put up my hair,” said Anastasia, who was sitting in front of her vanity admiring herself.

  The girls were both beautiful, with long fair hair that couldn’t have been more different than Ava’s own mousy brown. A fact both of the girls remarked upon with some regularity.

  “Anastasia, dear, you know your mama does not like you to put up your hair. There are other styles that will look just as lovely.”

  “Of course there are other styles to make me look just as lovely. How could there not be? But dear Mama is not here right now and I want to put it up. Are you going to help me or do I have to tell Clayton you are being disobedient and lazy?”

  “Anastasia, when you put your hair up you look older. It could give the wrong idea to some of Lord Clayton’s guests.” Or all of them, knowing the type of men who usually frequented these parties.

  “Of course it will give ideas to his guests. Why else would I be doing it? You have given up all hope of marrying, but I have not. How old are you, anyway?”