The Earl’s New Identity (The Regency Renegades - Beauty and Titles) (A Regency Romance Story)

by Jasmine Ashford

  “He did?” Wesley said in surprise. She laughed softly.

  “He did. He thinks very highly of you, and he told me...he told me that we would get along, very well, if we ever met. He was sure of it.”

  “He said that?” Wesley gaped in shock.

  “Do you think he was wrong?” she asked, and he managed a laugh.

  “No. I'm just...surprised,” he said. “I'm not used to people thinking about me when I'm not in their company.”

  “I think,” Lola was quiet. “I will think upon you fondly after you leave my presence.”

  He met her eyes in the darkness, and he felt his heart stop.

  She leaned forward and his hand moved on instinct, tangling in her hair.

  This kiss was softer, gentler, less frightening than the first one. It was quiet, as if they had all the time in the world. The darkness of his room, save the candle she had brought in, offered comfort to both their racing minds.

  She pulled back when she needed to breathe, but their hands never left each other.

  “Will you think of me?” she asked, boldly.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “I don't think I could forget you.”

  Neither of them wanted to leave each other’s company, and so they sat in silence. She leaned against his bed post, and as much as he wanted to take her in his arms, he resisted, playing with the blankets instead.

  “What did Bamber mean?” he asked. “Today? About you hiding here?”

  She sighed.

  “I suppose if I know your secrets, it's only fair that you know mine,” she said. “The boy that I mentioned, my childhood sweetheart, Peter...”

  “The one you got away from?” he asked. “You spoke of him at dinner that first night?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Peter and I had our whole lives planned out from the time we were children. We would marry and have a family. When I started to perform, he thought it was dazzling. But as we got older, as I began to take the lead roles and bask in fame...we had issues. He didn't like the attention I was getting, he couldn't understand that there were no strings to the scenes I had to perform in. The first time I retreated from him, I hid here. And then I booked my first tour, spending so much time away from him...it became clear that our feelings were no longer the same. I stopped writing, I stopped meeting him. Through the silence, it became clear that our engagement was over...although I suppose somewhere, in his bitter heart, he might think otherwise. ”

  “I'm sorry,” Wesley said, and she shrugged.

  “The hate that spiraled, that he sent, showed me who he really was. He wanted a life of class, of nobility. He thought that if I was famous, it would be close to nobility. However, the life of an actress, even as a famous one, is not nobility; it's not the class he dreamed of. He spoke such horrible words, he called me such horrible things...” a tear slipped down her face and he reached out to wipe it away.

  “I am sorry,” he said, again, honestly. “Because you deserve all the happiness in the world. And men like that are a disgrace.”

  “No, I'm sorry,” she wiped her face. “I didn't think it still bothered me.”

  “I understand,” Wesley said. “Of not meeting someone's expectations, at least. My father had impossible ones.”

  “And you chose your own path, as did I,” she said. “You're a good person, whether you are an Earl or a sailor.”

  “Do you have a preference?” he asked and she squeezed his hand. “Because I never thought I'd tell anyone of my title---but for this reason, I am glad of it. For this reason, I am happy to answer to it.”

  “No. This is nice, though. I've rarely been able to speak honestly with...”

  “I feel the same,” he assured her.

  “But this—us---” she bit her lip. “Do you know how hard it would be? I'd be traveling the country, kissing men on stage, and you'll be a million miles away, perhaps commanding a fleet, or in a big old house...”

  “Lola...” he squeezed her hand. “Did you not just tell me that you care not whether my title is soldier or earl?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied.

  “And I care not who you are at work,” he said. “We all have to survive, to follow our hearts. That is your path and this is mine. And if our paths ever end up in the same house, I would be overjoyed. But until then, until either of us is ready to leave our passion...I am quite happy to pursue things as they are.”

  It was as if they were magic words. She leaned in to kiss him again, laughing through her tease.

  “Fate brought you to me,” she said.

  “Or Mr. Bamber,” Wesley replied, and she laughed.

  “I should go back to bed,” she said, although she didn't want to. “It will be dawn soon, and who knows what the sunrise will bring.”

  “It will---” Suddenly, his brain turned. “Wait. Your Peter, he had a problem with your profession? With your on stage romances?”

  “Yes,” she said. “When I was playing a child, a nun, he enjoyed the fame. But Juliette? Guinevere? Those he did not like.”

  “How much did he not like it?” Wesley asked. “How angry was he?”

  “He---” Lola put the pieces together. Her hand flew over her mouth as her eyes went wide. “No. No.”

  “Is he capable of it?” Wesley asked her, and she looked as if she might swoon.

  “Yes,” she answered, at last. “He could be.”

  Wesley threw off the covers at once, standing on the cold floor. She jumped back a little at his sudden moment, grasping for the wall.

  “I want you to stay here,” he said. “I'm going to get the others. Stay with Mr. Bamber, alert the servants to not let anyone into the house until we return.”

  “What are you going to?” she asked, her heart thudding.

  “I'm going to find your ex-fiancé,” he said. “And I'm going to have him arrested for murder.”

  “He lives just outside London,” she said. “But on a night like this...it's likely that he would be drinking in town. Perhaps the Torrid pub. Why am I locking the doors?”

  “Because I knew a man like him once,” Wesley replied, looking in her eyes. “When he can't understand why his love drifted, he lashed out in violence, in drink. And eventually, he came after her.”

  “Who?” she asked. “Who do you know?”

  His eyes flashed, and he swallowed. He held his head high, finding strength in her love.

  “My father,” he said. “When my mother tried to run from his abuse, tried to make a new life, he found her. And we never saw her again. Had the French not destroyed our home, I would have destroyed him myself.”

  “Wesley,” she grabbed his wrist, but he reached up to her face.

  “It's alright, Lola,” he said, calmer than she expected him to be. “I've had nothing to fight for, for so long. Now I have you. It's alright.”

  And looking into his eyes, she believed him. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe.

  CHAPTER TEN

  OLD FLAME

  OLD FLAME

  “Have you met him?” Wesley asked, once Harold, Corrigan and Matheson were on the front porch with him. It didn't take much convincing to drag them from their beds, especially once the full story was released. “This Peter?”

  “I have,” Harold replied. “Briefly, but I could recognize him again on sight. She tried to rekindle something with him a few years ago, but it too ended badly.”

  “Screamed at each other for hours on this very spot,” Matheson put in. “That girl certainly has a set of lungs on her.”

  “What's your plan?” Corrigan was reeling from the story, from the attack on his friends. He was the simplest of the group, but in a way, it made him Wesley's strongest ally. Corrigan would follow his directions right away. “Find him, break his face?”

  “No,” Wesley said. “Although I'd like to. But if we can find him, and if I'm the only noble in the place, I have the rule in lieu of the police or the King. So...” he looked between them. “Anyone else have hidden ti
tles they want to reveal?”

  “If I get the courage to propose to Lady Annabelle one day, I'll let you know,” Harold said, dryly. “As for now, I think you're safe.”

  “Hopefully,” Wesley said. “Lola says he might be at the Torrid tavern.”

  “We know it,” Matheson said. “It's a rowdy place. The type of place where you might find Corrigan or I, but you officers would never set foot in it.”

  “You think so highly of us, Matheson,” Wesley said, as they ran down the path and towards town. “What do you think officers do when they are off duty?”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Matheson smiled. “I've never seen the two of you worse for wear at any point, with drink or otherwise.”

  Harold snorted.

  “Only because you aren't often in our wardroom. Although I can't speak for Wesley.”

  “I've had my moments,” he said. “But I prefer to suffer alone.”

  “Well, well, well,” Matheson smiled. “You learn something new every day.”

  “I just learned how an Earl's rule works,” Corrigan said, and Matheson smacked him upside the head.

  “Pay attention more.”

  “Are you sure that we're going the right way?” Harold put in.

  In the end, it was nearly an hour of circling the roads before they found the tavern they were looking for. When they finally found the right door, Wesley took a deep breath.

  “You've done this before, right?” Matheson eyed him.

  “Never,” Wesley said, and the older man smiled.

  “Well, I'll tell you what I tell my boys,” he said. “Chin up, eyes forward, and hit them where it hurts.”

  “When do you tell them that?” Corrigan asked, as Wesley walked through the door first.

  “Oh,” Matheson thought fondly of his sons. “Never. But he needed to hear it.”

  Corrigan nudged him with a grin, and they followed Wesley into the tavern.

  Matthew's description of the tavern was accurate, although Wesley wasn't focused on the atmosphere. He stood by Harold, who was scanning the crowd, his eyes squinting in the semi-darkness.

  “There,” he said, after a moment. “Blond, green eyes.”

  “Yes, I see him.” Wesley confirmed, nodding to the left. Peter was not what he expected, at all. For some reason, he expected a rat face little man. Instead, he was met with a handsome face, a tall, good looking and well dressed man. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Harold replied. “Pretending, as always, to be something he's not. He liked to be the best dressed man in the crowd, as if he was lowering himself to meet with anyone.”

  Wesley stood stock still a moment, considering his options. Anyway he spun it, he would be announcing his title to this entire tavern, and who knew where it would carry from there. There was no going back. Anytime he docked in London, they would know. His anonymity would be gone, his running over.

  He saw Lola's face in his mind's eye, the tears sweeping down her face, her fear manifesting in her trembling hands. It was with that picture that he stalked forward, trying to swallow his own nerves.

  “Peter?” he asked, his voice strong.

  The man turned, arching an eyebrow. Wesley could see that he was drunk, his eyes glazed over. He wasn't sure whether it would make it easier or harder, but he was in too deep to stop now.

  “Who the devil are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Wesley,” he said, his chin high. He took a breath, and then continued his sentence. “And I am the Earl of Rippon.”

  “Are you now?” Peter smirked, looking him up and down. “Because I heard the Earl of Rippon was dead, with no heirs.”

  “Once,” Wesley replied. “But no more. You're going to come with me to the police, and you're going to go quietly.”

  He could see in an instant, the flash in Peter's eyes, that the accusation was correct. However, Peter put on a brave face, standing up. He weaved slightly, but was still taller than Wesley.

  “Am I now?” he said, his voice loud in the hushed tavern.

  “Yes,” Wesley said. “For three murders in the theater district, and for framing your ex-fiancé, Lola Montclair And...” he was taking a gamble on this one, his father's blazing memory in his mind's eyes now. “For aspiring to end her life next, because she ran from you.”

  Peter's eyes flashed, and Wesley had to move quickly before the fist swung. Before he knew what was happening, the entire tavern was screaming, rushing, chanting. Peter's fist connected with the side of his cheek and he felt a crack.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FIGHT

  FIGHT

  Wesley went flying backwards, but his reflexes were fast. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have cared whether someone was knocking him around; he was good at growing numb.

  Today, however, was different. Today, there was someone waiting at home.

  He sprung forward, and knocked the man so hard in the face that Peter had no chance.

  “What it's to you?” Peter spat a mouthful of blood. “For that whore?”

  “For Lola,” Wesley gritted his teeth. “Every bit.”

  He hit him again, and again, until Peter fell. The people around him were screaming, Corrigan was ready as back up, but Wesley had command of the room.

  “She is the love of my life,” he said, as he pushed him one more time. “The woman who changed my life, and reminded me of who I was. And you, sir, will bow, for I am the Earl of Rippon.”

  Within seconds, Peter was submissive on the floor, his eyes downcast, and his hands shaking.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, and the entire tavern burst into applause.

  Matheson clapped a hand on Wesley's shoulder.

  “My goodness,” he said, a smile on his face. “I didn't know you had that in you.”

  “Women make you do strange things,” Harold put in, standing near the door in case Peter tried to run.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Matheson replied, with a cheeky grin. “Being involved with Mr. Bamber's sister would probably be the strangest of all of us.”

  “Annabelle is nothing like---”

  “Oy,” Corrigan grinned. “She's his twin. You've got two crazy ones at your flank.”

  The idle chatter made the moment lighter, and Wesley's hands soon stopped shaking. However, his final challenge came when they dragged him to the police station.

  “We need you to sign this, My Lord,” the police chief said, handing him over a long document. “It's a statement endorsed by you that will make Lola Montclair free to go, and charge this man with murder. Your name here, your title here, as a Representative of the King.”

  Wesley said nothing, taking the quill. Right before the ink hit the page, he paused.

  “Wesley,” Harold said, and Wesley barely turned his head. “You have to do it. You're the only one.”

  “I know,” he took a deep breath. His friends were at his back, and they could say so many things that would be intelligent or logical. However, it wasn't intelligence or logic that won him over. It was Corrigan punching him lightly in the shoulder.

  “You'll always be that scared, too smart Midshipman to me.”

  “Thanks,” Wesley said, and put down his signature.

  5th Earl of Rippon

  “Thank you, My Lord,” the police chief blew on the paper to dry it. “You'll be informed of the upcoming trial, but with your testimony, it shouldn't be too much of a contest.”

  “Thank you,” Wesley said, and turned back to his friends. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

  “All this fighting has made me hungry,” Corrigan said, as they headed outside.

  “All that fighting? Do you mean all that watching?” Matheson asked him, and everyone laughed. As they walked, though, Wesley's mind returned to the logistics of the day. He fell back into step with Harold.

  “How long have you been involved with Annabelle?” he asked, curious as to what awaited him.

  “Oh,” Harold squinted. “I don't remember a time without Annabelle. Since I w
as fifteen though, officially.”

  “Fifteen?” Wesley said, in shock. He knew that both Lieutenants were approaching thirty, so this shocked him. “Really?”

  Harold gave him a pained smile.

  “Annabelle is a very strong woman, as is your Lola, with her own dreams and ambitions. In addition, you will find that so much time away means things do not...progress as fast as they would if you were both living in town. There has never been anyone else for either of us, but we are satisfied with how things are, at least for now. It is difficult though,” he gave Wesley a sideways glance. “If your situation mirrors mine, you will find yourself reconsidering everything in your life almost daily.”

  “Ah, well, that part is easy,” Wesley replied. “I just worry that I won't be...she's so...”

  “Women want what they want,” Harold said. “And heaven forbid that you tell them otherwise. If she wants you, I wouldn't argue there.”

  “Good advice,” Wesley replied.

  He was so comfortable in their company that he almost forgot about his blackened eye. When Lola saw him, however, her jaw dropped.

  “It's alright,” he assured her, as she ran to him. “It's nothing.”

  “It's hardly nothing,” she said. “Your face is black and blue. Your captain will have a fit.”

  “My Captain isn't...wait,” Wesley put the pieces together. “Did we get orders?”

  “They arrived this morning, after you left,” Lola pointed to the hallway table. Sure enough, four packages, sealed with the telltale red wax, were waiting for them. “Aaron already opened his. You leave in two days.”

  “That's soon,” was all Wesley had to say, as Lola laced her fingers into his.

  “Where is Peter?” she asked, quietly.

  “Awaiting trial for murder,” Wesley replied, meeting her eyes. “And he will likely hang, Lola.”

  Her face went three shades of white, but she only nodded.

  “He made his grave,” she said. “I just can't help but feel like this is my fault.”