Twilight with the Infamous Earl

by Alexandra Hawkins

  The sound of breaking porcelain and a sharp cry of indignant outrage spared Saint from replying. Sin had finally caught his son, and in the process had knocked over a large vase. Juliana had abandoned the pianoforte and was attempting to soothe her crying son. Sin stepped aside, relieved his wife was willing to take charge of the situation.

  Perhaps in sympathy for their upset friend, Bishop and Lily began to cry. Sophia rushed to her daughter’s side while Dare dealt with his son.

  “Is this a drawing room or a nursery?” Frost wondered aloud, but no one was paying attention to him.

  As the children sobbed, and the adults tried to calm them, Frost watched, realizing that he was the one who did not fit the quaint family gathering. Somewhere along the way, his friends had moved on without him when they had married and started their families.

  He was part of their lives, but no longer one of them.

  Frost finished his brandy as he mulled over his unpleasant revelations about himself and his friends. There were other things to consider, as well, like the future of Nox.

  “Are you just going to stand there gathering wool?” Dare demanded, his frustration penetrating Frost’s dark musings. “A little assistance would be welcome.”

  Frost smirked. “I think not, dear brother. This is when I will quietly take my leave. Please, carry on with your evening without me.”

  He turned away from his family and friends. Alone. Just the way he preferred his life.

  Chapter Three

  In a small country graveyard, Emily stared solemnly at the headstone that marked the final resting place of her beloved older sister.

  Lucille Charlotte Cavell

  Born February 2, 1801

  Died August 19, 1821

  Family and friends had called her Lucy, and everyone had loved her. Betrothed to Lord Leventhorpe, she should have been happily planning her autumn wedding.

  Instead she had perished by her own hand.

  Five years had passed since that tragic night when Emily had discovered her sister alarmingly pale and bleeding on the floor of her bedchamber. Lucy had been barely conscious when Emily screamed for her father as she gathered her dying sister into her arms.

  “Hold on. Father will know what to do!” she had assured her sister, her slender fingers unable to halt the blood spilling from the ragged wounds on Lucy’s wrists.

  “Love,” her sister murmured almost sleepily. “It ruins what it should treasure.”

  “Stop talking. Conserve your strength,” Emily had told her.

  She shouted for her father again, but the muscles in her throat had constricted with growing horror that her sister was too far gone to be saved by anyone. Her voice cracked as she sobbed in frustration.

  “Emily?”

  Lucy had sounded surprised to see her.

  “Yes.” Emily glanced about the room wondering if there was something she could use to bind Lucy’s wounds. She was reluctant to leave her side, but no one had heard her cries for assistance.

  Her sister’s glassy green gaze seemed unfocused, and her increasing lethargy frightened Emily.

  “I have to go find Father. You need a surgeon.”

  “No,” Lucy replied with unexpected strength. It quickly faded on her exhale. “Just listen. I need you to listen.”

  Emily bowed her head over her sister. Her last words were a confession of her sins. It was a burden she did not wish to carry forth in death. So Lucy had passed her darkest secrets to her.

  “Tell no one,” she had begged. At Emily’s blank stare, she demanded, “Swear.”

  “I swear” had been her numb reply.

  Her mother’s high-pitched scream snapped Emily out of her stupor.

  “What have you done?”

  Turning away from her daughters, she called for her husband and the servants. Lucy had been pulled from Emily’s arms and placed on the bed.

  Emily sat in a pool of her sister’s blood as they had tried to save her. She did not have the voice to tell her mother and father that Lucy had no desire to be saved. She had wanted to die.

  And she had succeeded.

  “You have to let her go,” her mother said gently, coming closer until she was standing behind her. “Lucy loved you. She would insist that you be happy.”

  “I am happy, Mother,” Emily replied somberly, her gaze still focused on the headstone.

  “You might have your father fooled, but a mother knows what’s in her daughter’s heart.” Her mother placed her arm around Emily’s waist.

  She thought about Lucy’s last words. “Truly? Did you know what was in Lucy’s heart when she sliced her wrists open with Father’s blade?”

  It was rather spiteful of her to ask a question to which she already knew the answer. Her mother had not been privy to her eldest daughter’s secrets. A soft choking sound of shock and the loss of her mother’s comforting embrace was the least she deserved.

  “This melancholy is about London, is it not?” Her mother’s voice had hardened at the not-so-subtle reminder that Lucy was beyond their reach because her family had failed her. “You are looking for a reason not to join us.”

  “Of course not, Mother.” She leaned down and placed the bouquet of flowers she was holding next to the headstone. “I look forward to joining the family in London.”

  Emily offered her mother a slight smile.

  Her mother still looked unconvinced. “You have avoided—”

  She resisted, rolling her eyes. “This old argument. First, I was too young to join you, and other years, I wished to spend my time with friends.”

  “In the country,” her mother lamented.

  “It is not a sin to have good friends.” Emily teased to lighten the mood. “Besides, I will see them in London this year. This should please you.”

  She had won the battle without much effort, and she was suspicious. “And you intend to join us in the festivities. Balls, the theater, the museums—”

  “All, and more,” Emily assured her.

  “Oh.” The lines in her forehead eased. “Well, that’s wonderful. Your father will be delighted to see us.” Her mother clapped her hands together. “Just wait until we go shopping. You will be amazed by the assortment and quality.”

  Emily did not interrupt her mother as she spoke of her favorite shops. She had not lied. After all, she was looking forward to traveling to London. Her mother and father had high hopes for her this season, and she planned to enjoy all the amusements the town had to offer.

  Nevertheless, there was one small task she intended to keep from her family.

  While she was in London, Emily intended to find the gentleman who had ruined her sister and use everything at her disposal to return the favor.

  Chapter Four

  There were very few things that could ruin Frost’s mood.

  Unfortunately, the lady who had written the note he had clutched in his fist was at the top of his list. To add to his annoyance, she had not bothered making an appearance at the meeting she had requested.

  It was so typical of her.

  Frost strode across the lobby of the hotel and stepped out onto the street. He raised his hand, blinking against the glare of the afternoon sun. Belatedly, he recalled that he had ordered his coachman to return for him in one hour.

  Softly cursing under his breath, he debated on whether he should return to the hotel. There was always a chance his companion was late for their meeting.

  He swiftly discarded the notion.

  The lady was playing unpleasant games with him. If she required his assistance, she could bloody well seek him out. He had no intention of lurking around the lobby in the hope of catching sight of her.

  Too agitated to sit, Frost crossed the street with no specific destination in mind. The exercise would do him good. It would clear his head and work off his temper. He was not going to let her ruin his afternoon. The days when he was at the mercy of her whims were long gone, and she knew it.

  Old habits were difficult to shed.


  The hotel was respectable, but it wasn’t situated in the most fashionable section of town. However, this time of day, pedestrians and hawkers selling wares filled the walkways, and there was a steady stream of horses, wagons, and coaches on the streets. As long as he avoided the narrow mews and alleys, no one would challenge him. And if some unlucky fellow was foolish enough to cross him—well, then, he was willing to accommodate him.

  With his walking stick in hand, he kept his pace leisurely as he noted the passing carriages. It was probably too much to hope that his coachman would make a timely appearance. A light breeze teased his hair, reminding him that he preferred to be outdoors rather than closed up in a stuffy room.

  Perhaps he should view the missed appointment as a blessing in disguise. There were more pleasurable ways to enjoy the afternoon.

  As he passed what barely counted as a street, a woman’s cry of pain caused him to turn his head. Halfway down the street, a fight was brewing. Spectators were already forming a circle around what seemed to be a disagreement between several women and a man. He was too far away to distinguish their words, but the woman in blue was angry.

  Not your concern, gent.

  Fights broke out daily on the London streets. Jealous rivals engaging in fisticuffs, merchants bumping chests over what was perceived as a competitive advantage, whores shouting after customers who had cheated them out of a proper payment—Frost had witnessed it all.

  He did not need to involve himself in their affairs.

  Then the man grabbed one of the women. As he attempted to drag her away from the crowd, the other female attacked him with her unopened parasol. The man knocked his attacker aside as he wrestled with the first woman.

  Frost despised bullies.

  He headed for the trio, slightly annoyed that no one could bring themselves to help these women. As he drew closer, he quickly noted the differences between the two women. The female being dragged off was the younger of the pair. She was wearing a dress that was too large and should have been tossed in the rag bin years ago. The man’s rough handling had torn one of the sleeves, and there were dirt smudges on her skirt. The second female did not belong in this rough borough—although she did not appear to be worried about getting her hands dirty. Her white gloves, the lace and workmanship of her blue dress and bonnet, and her prim educated voice as she berated the beefy bruiser all marked her as a lady of quality.

  She was also a redhead, Frost observed, as several crisp curls had slipped free during her struggles.

  He had a fondness for redheads.

  “Let her go,” the woman said, her chilly cultured tones warming Frost’s heart. “If you leave now, with luck on your side, you might avoid being dragged before the magistrate.”

  “If anyone is going to jail, it’s you,” the man jeered, unimpressed with the woman’s threat. “This wench is my property. You have no right, stealing her from me.”

  “Me?” The redhead’s slender body vibrated with outrage. “That child is no man’s property, you worm! Furthermore—”

  “Perhaps I might be of service?” Frost smoothly interjected, his polite query causing the two women and man to stop and gape at him. On closer inspection, he had to reevaluate his opinion of the female in the dirty dress. She was more child than woman. If she was older than sixteen, he would eat his boots. If she had worn a bonnet, she had lost it while struggling with her captor. Her dirty brown hair was unbound and her thin, pinched face spoke eloquently of the poverty she endured. Her brown eyes were bloodshot from crying, and there was a wild, desperate look in them that angered him. The girl was frightened.

  “None of this is your business,” the man was saying to him. “Nor is it yours, witch!”

  The redhead did not take kindly to being called a witch. “Oh, so I have the look of a witch, do I?” she asked in mocking tones. “What gives me away? My red hair or my green eyes?”

  She took an intimidating step toward him, and the man had the good sense to retreat. “I’ll share a little secret with you. If I was a witch, I would turn you into a fat rat and then give your skull a solid thumping with my broom!”

  Several spectators chuckled, which only enraged the man.

  His face reddened as he mopped the sweat on his brow with his free hand. “See here, you—”

  “Before you finish your threat, I suggest you release the girl and step away from the lady,” Frost said, sensing the man was foolish enough to strike a woman in front of witnesses.

  Without warning, he found himself the focus of the lady’s ire. Her eyes were indeed a fascinating hazel color, an olive green trimmed with rings of gold. There was an inner fire in those clear, intelligent depths that, at the moment, conveyed her fury at his interference.

  “Are you a constable?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with disdain.

  The absurd question rendered him speechless. How had he become the villain? Finding his tongue, he replied with a question of his own. “Am I dressed like one? No. I am—”

  “I do not care who you are, sir,” she said, dismissing his attempt at an introduction with a wave of her hand. “What I care about is to remove this child from that blackguard.”

  Satisfied that she had put Frost in his place, she turned to address the man who had truly earned her wrath. “Release her, and allow us to leave unmolested, and I shall not report you to the proper authorities.”

  “Katie is my daughter,” he shouted at her. “She stays with me. Leave now, or I’ll report you for kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping?” The redhead glanced at the girl. “Does he speak the truth? Is he your father?”

  The girl quivered like a frightened rabbit. She cast a wary glance at the lady and then at the man who gripped her arm. “He is—was married to my mum.”

  “I raised the girl as if she were my own,” the man said.

  The woman ignored him. “And your mum?”

  “Dead. Almost a fortnight,” the girl said, her eyes filling with tears. “We couldn’t afford the medicine she needed.”

  The redhead shook her head. “Say no more. You have my sympathies.” She inhaled deeply as if to fortify her courage. “Do you want to stay with this man?”

  “And what choice does she have, I ask you?” he asked, tugging on the girl’s arm. “I’m her da, and the only family she has left.”

  Frost silently concurred. Whatever circumstances transpired before his arrival, the girl belonged with the man who raised her. It was not his concern. Nor the well-meaning lady’s.

  His fingers lightly grazed the redhead’s arm, and she stiffened at his touch. “It is best to stay out of family squabbles.”

  She glared at him from over her shoulder. “Is that what you think this is? A family squabble? That man has been selling his daughter’s … er, favors to every gentleman within earshot.”

  He was not surprised by the lady’s outrage. Her sheltered upbringing had not prepared her for the harsh realities poverty had to offer. “May I speak to you privately?”

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion at his request. “Surely, you jest. We are standing in the middle of the street and are surrounded by onlookers.”

  Frost unceremoniously seized the redhead by the arm and dragged her away from the man and his stepdaughter. He scowled at the man, and stabbed his walking stick in the man’s direction. “Do not attempt to flee with the girl. You will not enjoy the consequences.” He glanced down at the woman, who was trying to shake off his grip. “Come along, my dear. Let’s have our private chat.”

  * * *

  Emily struggled to free herself, but it was an act of futility. The gentleman held her as effectively as an iron manacle. If she could have moved her arm, she would have brought the top of her parasol down on his boot. “You have no right to touch me!” she said through clenched teeth as she seethed.

  They had only stepped a few yards away from the girl and her beastly stepfather. She glared impotently at him. He was whispering something to poor Katie; most likely, he w
as threatening her with a beating if she did not stand with him.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  Emily reluctantly glanced up at her captor. It was the first time she had bothered to truly look at him. He was a gentleman. She had deduced as much with just a passing glance. His manner of speech, clothing, and arrogance marked him as part of the aristocracy.

  What stunned her into silence was the beauty of him. If angels walked the earth, they would possess such compelling perfection. His face looked like the work of a sculptor. Unblemished skin, a strong jaw, full lips and brow that age had improved upon. He looked about thirty years old. Despite the hint of tan darkening his skin, his face was unlined. Oh, and his eyes—an intense turquoise-blue that seemed to peer into her very soul. She felt the impact of his stare and wondered if she would see those eyes in her dreams this evening.

  “He is going to run off with her,” she fretted.

  The man gave her an exasperated look. “For all practical purposes, the man is her father. He has every right to run off with her.”

  “You don’t understand,” she began, sensing she had been pulled aside for a lecture.

  “No, my lovely lady, you do not seem to comprehend the situation,” he said sternly, his fingers biting into her arm. He kept his voice low for her ears alone. “If a constable wandered by, he is likely to haul you off to the magistrate for trying to kidnap the girl from the only family she has left. What are you hoping to accomplish? That she is abandoned and placed in a workhouse?”

  “A workhouse is better than living with that filthy beast,” she whispered back. “Are you aware what he was doing before you came along? Do you even care?”

  “I wager more than you do, little innocent,” he shot back, frustration and impatience threading his voice. “Hungry bellies need to be filled, and there are unpalatable ways to fill them. Just because you do not like how these people go about—”

  Had she mentally described him as an angel? Mayhap a fallen one. “I am not blind to the harshness of the world, sir! I understand that some people are willing to sell their bodies to survive.”