The London League
Book Three
by
Rebecca Connolly
Also by
Rebecca Connolly
The Arrangements:
An Arrangement of Sorts
Married to the Marquess
Secrets of a Spinster
The Dangers of Doing Good
The Burdens of a Bachelor
A Bride Worth Taking
A Wager Worth Making
A Gerrard Family Christmas
The London League:
The Lady and the Gent
A Rogue About Town
Coming Soon:
By H ook or by Rook
The Spinster Chronicles:
The Merry Lives of Spinsters
The Spinster and I
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped” book.
Text copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Connolly
Cover art copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Connolly
Cover art by Tugboat Design
http://www.tugboatdesign.net
All rights reserved. Published by Phase Publishing, LLC. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Phase Publishing, LLC first ebook edition
February 2019
ISBN 978-1-943048-75-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019931039
Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.
Acknowledgements
For Colin Firth, who will always be handsome, charming, eloquent, witty, and perfectly dashing. My first celebrity crush, my first historical fictional boyfriend, and the only man on the planet who could ask to play any of my characters and I would consider it a genius idea.
And to Ritz Crackers, possibly my one true love. Pair you with peanut butter and a Diet Coke, and we’re the happiest family ever.
Want to hear about future releases and upcoming events for Rebecca Connolly?
Sign up for the monthly Wit and Whimsy at:
www.rebeccaconnolly.com
Index
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
London, 1825
There were very few things over which Malcolm Colerain, Earl of Montgomery, did not have control.
He was fortunate enough to have the sort of calm, collected persona that enabled him to see with clarity and act accordingly no matter the situation or the distraction surrounding him. He exerted authority and control out of pure instinct, and, more often than not, all things would proceed according to his will. He’d quite gotten used to getting his way and prided himself on not being high-handed about it.
Finding himself a wife was something over which he ought to have had all the control in the world, and yet it had been a year of consciously attempting to do so without any success at all.
Granted, he’d not applied to any woman for her hand in marriage. So, it would follow that he would not have obtained a wife by now.
Honestly, he’d not really courted any women during that time. So, it would have been highly irregular and improper to offer a proposal.
In truth, he’d not really spoken to any women of marriageable age or situation about the possibility of courtship. So, he could not have expected to begin a proper courtship without establishing that conversation.
If he were to be absolutely, perfectly, painfully frank, he would also be forced to admit that he had not been paying that much attention to who the women were who might have been of marriageable age or situation in the last year. Which would make conversation, courtship, the acceptance of an offer, and finally marriage itself, all rather difficult.
So, really, all he had done was think about it. And he did control that… Most of the time.
It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t control the fact that he hadn’t found a wife, it was that he didn’t want to find a wife. He wanted the one he used to have, but he couldn’t control that, and he needed a wife now.
It ought to have been as simple as setting his mind to the task of finding a suitable woman to care for his four children and run his estate in his absence. He required a capable woman of sense and judgment who could manage affairs without needing his counsel. She must also be a woman of taste and quality who would carry well the respect, authority, and duty incumbent upon the next Lady Montgomery.
And above all else, she would be a woman with whom he would never fall in love. He’d done that once. It was the most painful experience of his life, and he had no desire to repeat it.
Malcolm’s criteria had been set from the very beginning. The problem was that he didn’t know of any women who fit those expectations, and as none of them would be Caroline, he really didn’t see the point in trying.
Caroline…
He still could not breathe if he thought about her for more than half of a second. The pain of losing the love of his life was something he had not recovered from, though it had been more than two years. Every day felt as painful as the first, and for a man accustomed to such self-control, it was too much.
Throwing himself into his work had helped, which might have sounded odd to anybody else, since he was a relatively wealthy earl. What sort of work could he possibly be engaged in other than the management of his estate, lands, and tenants? The world would have been shocked that the staid and respectable Earl of Montgomery was one of England’s covert operatives and had been for many years. He had seen more skirmishes than many military men and had been party to more preventative measures where the Crown was at stake than anyone would dare comprehend. He would never speak of it, but because of his efforts and those of his fellow spies, the King still sat on his throne, and Parliament still functioned as it ever did.
Caroline had known of his work, though the more sensitive details and dangers had been kept secret, and she had fully supported him. She had never complained about his absences, sometimes for weeks at a time, and had never made him feel guilty for having to devote so much of his time and energies to their efforts. She never once seemed to be anything but exceptionally proud of him, though he knew she must have felt the weight and burden of managing without him. How she must have worried. Endured. Suffered.
But she never spoke of it. Truly, she had been his most perfect companion.
So, it ought not to have been any sort of surprise that he could not find another wife. Caroline had been a proverbial saint, aside from her wicked wit and occasional moments of distress when the children became too much for her patience. But while the wit had been a near constant, the distress had been very rare.
Their children had been her delight, and his as well. They still were, but he felt the loss of his wif
e so keenly every time he looked at them. He knew they still pined for her, having always preferred their mother to him. Knowing that he could never fill the void left by her death was more than he could endure.
Malcolm’s devotion to his work in London steeped him in guilt over leaving his children so often at Knightsgate to the care of nannies and servants. It had begun to gnaw at his soul, and it was this that reminded him of the need for a wife. Not for himself, but for his children, to have someone to properly manage them.
She would never replace their mother, of course, but a maternal influence was needed in their lives. Particularly for his daughters, who were growing up too quickly for his preference. They needed him to find a wife, no matter how he bristled at the idea, and so, a wife he would find. The sooner, the better, for there was much that needed to be done.
“You’re going to be late.”
Malcolm shook himself out of his bleak reverie and blinked up at one of his superiors, the one they called Weaver. As one of the Shopkeepers, he belonged among the select group of men who oversaw all the covert operations in all departments of England. Malcolm had known this man for years, since Weaver’s days of being an operative himself. Back then, he’d been known as Fox, and he had been among the best of them. Now, despite his more secret work in the administration of covert operatives, he was a diplomat for the world to see, and in those more publicly observed circles, he was simply Lord Rothchild.
To Malcolm, however, and particularly since this was a social call at his London residence, he was Fritz.
The still-handsome man leaned against the doorjamb of his study with a sort of irreverent elegance that most men could practice their entire lives and never master. He smirked knowingly at Malcolm, the crispness of his cravat almost distracting against the dark blue coat he wore. He was the very picture of a perfectly cordial diplomat, aside from the hint of mischief that was always present in his eyes.
Malcolm shook his head. “I will not. I know exactly how long it takes me to go by coach from here to Mrs. Granger’s residence, and I have plenty of time.”
Fritz snorted and pushed into the room, clamping a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “You need to go, and you need to go now. Stop dawdling.”
“I never dawdle,” Malcolm informed him, turning back to finish the end of his current report.
It had been several months since he and his men in the London League had had much of anything to report, but between the four of them, they had made quite a breakthrough recently. It was a most inconvenient time to try to find a wife. But, he supposed, the sooner he found one, the sooner he could devote himself to his work without the sting of guilt overwhelming him.
“Not usually, no,” Fritz drawled, gripping his friend’s shoulder in an almost painfully tight squeeze, “but I know what is on your mind. I have been restraining Emily’s efforts to offer assistance and candidates at the risk of my own happiness and at my own expense. You know how my wife hates it when I oppose her.”
Malcolm gripped his quill pen tightly and tried to keep his breathing steady. “I appreciate Lady Rothchild’s concern and interest,” he managed through gritted teeth.
“You do not,” Fritz laughed derisively. “You’d tell her off, if you were less polite. Emily is an interfering busybody with not enough to do. I’ll hold her off as long as I can, but she is a most worthy opponent, and my defenses are weakening.”
Malcolm glanced up at his friend briefly and cocked an eyebrow. “Weren’t you one of the operatives in Paris during the Revolution?”
Fritz shrugged, as he usually did when one of his many accomplishments was mentioned. “Even Robespierre would have fled from my wife in terror, had he met her.” He looked over Malcolm’s shoulder and grunted. “Mention Rook’s leg injury and you’re set there. No need to go on; you know Tailor only skims them.”
That did not sound like Tailor at all. He was the spymaster of England and had one of the most brilliant minds that Malcolm had ever known. He knew everything about everyone. He would never take their reports lightly, would he?
“Yes, he would,” Fritz replied, answering the question that had not been asked aloud. “You think he doesn’t already know what happened?”
Malcolm sighed and finished the report based on Fritz’s suggestion, then set his quill aside and pushed out of his chair.
“Then why the reports at all?” he asked as he left the room, Fritz following behind.
“Because it’s good for you,” Fritz said with a laugh, “and, you know, the nonsense about capturing all the detail for future reference.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes and nodded at Clifton, his butler, as they exited the house. Fritz’s carriage waited for them in front, as Malcolm rarely kept carriages in his London residences anymore, choosing to walk unless it was a social event. He would have preferred to walk today, to be perfectly honest, but as this outing was one that required his most polite behavior, Fritz had offered him a lift in his own carriage.
Along with his wife, it seemed, for the beautiful Lady Rothchild waited within.
“My lady,” Malcolm said with a polite dip of his chin as he situated himself on the opposite seat. “I did not know you would be joining us this afternoon.”
She smiled at him in a rather mischievous way. “Nor did my husband, my lord. But I find I am most wild to see Mrs. Granger again. It has been far too long.”
Malcolm tilted his head a little, curious at her statement. “Forgive me, but I did not think you were particularly acquainted with her.”
Fritz laughed loudly as he entered the carriage and settled in next to his wife.
She rewarded him with a hearty slap across his chest, which was not unusual for them. “I am not, and I feel rather dreadful about it,” she told Malcolm, ignoring her husband’s muffled chuckling. “As Fritz was invited along, I felt it was my duty to accompany you both.”
“Just to see if I can find a wife among her friends?” Malcolm asked, assessing his friend’s wife with a cool stare that matched hers.
“Quite,” she quipped, her mouth curving a little more.
He grunted softly and turned his attention out the window. “You will be disappointed.”
“That’s all right. I know many women who would suit.”
“How fortunate for you.”
“Monty…” Fritz murmured, a hint of warning in his tone.
“Leave him alone, darling,” Lady Rothchild soothed. “It’s a hard task before him, but Monty and I know where we stand with each other, don’t we, my lord?”
Malcolm managed to smile and glanced at her briefly, wishing he did not find her quite as magnificent as she was. “I am ever your humble servant, my lady.”
“Oh, thank you for that token display of noblesse oblige,” Fritz groaned, leaning back against the carriage wall. “She’ll be lording it over me for days.”
“And if you had any yourself,” Lady Rothchild huffed with a turn of her fair head towards her husband, “our sons might actually be impressing their professors at school, and our daughters would have an idea of what to look for in a husband.”
“The girls are fourteen at the most!” he protested with a feigned cry, parrying her verbal jabs at him. “We’ve done away with child marriages for some time now!”
Malcolm let the two of them go on, bickering as they usually did and wished it did not tug at his heart to hear them. They were a fiery couple, but there was an enormous amount of love and passion between them, as well as unyielding loyalty, and everybody knew it. They were the ideal married couple. At one time, Malcolm could have matched them for the title, though he and Caroline had been less popular. He missed everything about his wife, including their quarrels, playacted or not.
He would never find the same comfort and ease, the same love and tenderness with anyone else that he’d had with her. He could never replace her. It seemed a fool’s errand to try. So, he was not looking for a replacement wife, just someone who would love his children.
Ev
erything else was secondary.
“Lord Montgomery, it is so good to see you again!”
Malcolm bit back a groan and turned to face Lady Lavinia Herschel, who was thankfully dressed in a respectable, modest ensemble rather than the provocative fashions for which she was becoming notorious. She was a woman who had certain appetites and made no attempt to hide them. Despite being the daughter of an earl, she had inherited none of the nobility in temperament. Her husband was a senior member of Parliament who was as ignorant of her as he was unsuited to her, but they seemed to be satisfied with their polite distance. She was left to her devices and he to his.
This brash woman had been pursuing Malcolm relentlessly from the moment his wife had died, offering to provide solace and comfort in her own way. She would have heard that he was looking for a wife, and she would certainly have something to say on the subject.
“Lady Lavinia,” he heard himself say, bowing politely.
She flashed her dark eyes up at him, toying with one of her long curls with a finger. “My lord, I hear you are looking for a wife,” she said, emphasizing each word with a flick of her tongue or a graze of her teeth across her lips.
“You know how I feel about gossip,” he replied with all politeness. After all, her husband was an important man, and though Lady Lavinia notoriously hated her husband, she found him useful when it came to offenses against her.
A Tip of the Cap (London League, Book 3) Page 1
