West End Earl

Book 2: Misfits of Mayfair

by Bethany Bennett

Genres: Regency Romance; Scottish & Highlander; Royalty Romance

Synopsis

From the series guaranteed to "win the hearts of Regency fans” comes a story of secret identities, unlikely love, and forbidden romances that will warm even the coldest of hearts (Publishers Weekly).

While most young ladies attend balls and hunt for husbands, Ophelia Hardwick has spent the last ten years masquerading as a man. As the land steward for the Earl of Carlyle, she’s found safety from the uncle determined to kill her and freedoms a lady could only dream of. Ophelia’s situation would be perfect—if only she wasn’t hopelessly attracted to her employer.

Calvin, Earl of Carlyle, is determined to see his sister married this season. And he’ll do it with the help of his trusted right-hand man. But when he finds out his man is a woman, and that her life is in danger, his priorities change. Their attraction is passionate, all-consuming, and if they aren’t careful, it could turn downright deadly—for both of them.

Release date: June 8, 2021

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

London, May 1820

Few things were more terrifying than Almack’s on a Wednesday night.

When an unmarried man in possession of a fortune entered the room, young women straightened their shoulders to put their bosoms on display, donned smiles, and went on the hunt, with their mamas acting as guides. Likewise, if a gentleman wanted a wife with a dowry and a good family, he merely had to show up and survey the options. Anyone who attended knew what they were getting themselves into.

Tonight, he wasn’t the one hunted. Emma was. And the chit seemed to be having the time of her life.

As the evening progressed, the room filled with wedding-hungry mamas and white-muslin-clad dewy-eyed girls who should be in a schoolroom—not in the arms of these decrepit lechers, most of whom were old enough to be their fathers.

His sister swept by in the arms of a man who, if his hand crept lower than Emma’s waist, would be dead by morning. Bow Street might never find the body. Not all of it, anyway.

The stark color palette for gentlemen attending the assembly rooms was another annoyance on his growing list of grievances against this evening. Cal sighed, running a hand over his black embroidered waistcoat. It would be a shame to spoil this perfect cravat with blood—Kingston would have a fit, and exceptional valets were hard to find—but if young Lord Cleavage-Ogler didn’t rein in those wandering hands, the linen would be collateral damage. Cal narrowed his eyes and tried to send a silent threat to the man holding his sister.

He’d thought he would have weeks before Emma waltzed in these hallowed halls. Permission to waltz was precious and not something you could plan for if you were a debutante brand-new to the Season. He’d watched in silent dismay as one of the Almack’s patronesses had given her blessing. The woman had sent a beaming smile at the top of Emma’s gold curls as his sister made a perfect curtsy.

“A fellow Saint Albans girl? And so lovely too! Waltz, enjoy, and please pass along my regards to Headmistress Lunetta. It’s been an age, and I owe her a letter.”

Damn.

Cal turned to one of his closest friends, Adam. “Puppy, I’ll give you one hundred pounds to marry my sister—on the condition that you never touch a hair on her head.” It was said in jest and desperation, but once the words left his mouth, the idea gained appeal. Someone stable, reliable, and honest like Adam would be ideal for headstrong Emma. Adam worked for him now but would gain a tidy fortune upon his next birthday. He didn’t have land or a title, but he was a gentleman’s son and had character.

“No thank you. Emma’s a beauty, I’ll grant you that. But my pockets aren’t so dusty that I need to sell myself just to relieve you of your brotherly duty.” The Puppy, known to everyone else as Adam Hardwick, nursed a glass of lemonade, grimacing with every swallow.

The famous Almack’s refreshments claimed another victim. “I object to your strong moral fiber. But I hate to see a friend suffer. Here. Brandy helps the lemonade go down easier.” Cal slipped a small flask from his waistcoat pocket.

“Don’t they need lemons to make lemonade? Whatever this is, it has never met a lemon. I’d bet my final shilling.” Adam dumped a generous serving of liquor into the small punch cup.

“Are you down to your final shilling? Because again, I offer one hundred pounds.”

“Watching you suffer is better than a king’s ransom.” The Puppy took a tentative sip and made a grunting noise Cal assumed denoted relief.

On the dance floor, Emma’s partner said something to make her laugh. The charming sound rose over the notes of the orchestra, complementing the music. All around the room, heads swiveled toward her like sharks scenting blood in the water.

“Two hundred pounds. What if I dare you?” Even to his ears he sounded desperate.

“I hate saying no to a dare. But I’m not that gullible.” Adam didn’t even have the grace to sound apologetic or look away from watching the action on the dance floor.

“Why? Only an hour ago you said she was beautiful.”

“She looks too much like you.”

There could be no doubt he and Emma were siblings. But thanks to his father dipping his quill in every available inkwell, the same applied to several others in the room. The fair hair and dark eyes were distinctive. At least the number of his father’s by-blows present tonight ensured three—no, Lady Wallace just arrived. So there were four eager mamas who wouldn’t be pushing their daughters toward Calvin as potential matches. As silver linings went, it left much to be desired.

“Did you know your left eye twitches? It hasn’t stopped since Emma’s partner splayed his fingers towards her bum.” Adam said it to tease, but he wasn’t wrong.

The betraying eye twitch made itself known again, and Cal couldn’t do anything about it. “For that, I’m taking my flask back. Get your own liquor, Puppy.” He tucked it inside his coat.

“It’s almost empty anyway.” Adam took a healthy swig of the considerably doctored lemonade.

Cal glared at the couple on the dance floor. “Don’t you think they’re too close? Where’s a patroness when you need one? I should have kept her in school for another year.”

“Eighteen is a perfectly respectable age to come out.”

“Sisters are the bane of a man’s existence. There is nothing worse than launching them into society.”

His friend raised a brow at him. “I realize you’re being dramatic, but try not to be an arse. I can easily think of a dozen worse things—several of which I witnessed firsthand on the way here tonight, and one in particular I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. And considering I know exactly who my worst enemy is, that’s saying something.”

Just like that, heat flooded Cal’s face. Damn. He’d officially earned the title of Worst Friend Ever. “Apologies. That was insensitive.”

Adam offered a jerky nod, then returned to studying the room.

“I’m a lousy friend tonight and an ungrateful wretch to complain to you of all people. You would have been happy to launch—devil take it, now I’m forgetting your sister’s name.” Did the title of Worst Friend Ever come with a crown? Perhaps a spit of land somewhere, like a deserted isle on which to maroon oneself?

“Ophelia,” Adam murmured. “Phee. She would have been out for a couple years by now. Maybe she’d have married already. Or she might be firmly on the shelf at the ripe old age of four and twenty. Twins, you know.”

Cal hid a wince behind a sip of his lukewarm quasi lemonade. Adam wasn’t a terribly handsome man, so it seemed implausible that his twin would have grown to be the toast of the Season. He might never fill out beyond his slender frame, but Adam was young yet. To call the Puppy’s hair merely “red” was rather graciously understating the situation. In reality, his hair was the color of bright-orange carrots and curled wildly in fluffy, feather-like tufts if allowed to grow longer than an inch. To be fair, Adam had full lips and a fine nose. If Ophelia had shared those features, she may have been pretty in her own unique way—although she likely would have lingered on the fringes of society with a minimal dowry and genteel but not high-born connections. Painfully thin, flat-broke, ginger-haired girls were not a sought-after commodity.

“I am sorry,” Cal said again.

Adam accepted the apology by toasting him with an almost empty glass, then downing the contents in one last swallow. “I’m tired. You stand here and stare daggers at every man with the audacity to flirt with your gorgeous sister. I’ll get a hack home.” Adam gave Calvin’s chest a firm pat in farewell and made his way out of the room, his bright hair acting as a beacon in a sea of black coats.

Well, that went poorly. Rubbing a palm over his chest, Cal turned to the dance floor. If he could convince Adam to return for next week’s Almack’s assembly, it would be a miracle. As it was, he’d bribed, begged, and cajoled several weeks’ worth of vouchers for his friend in hopes of not having to face this ordeal alone. But after essentially telling the Puppy he was lucky to have a dead sister, Cal might deserve to suffer Almack’s without support. The haunted look on Adam’s face whenever he spoke of Ophelia created a guilty roll of unease in Cal’s stomach that had nothing to do with angst over watching Emma and her partner—both of whom looked to be having a wonderful time.

Tomorrow people would declare her the belle of the ball, as they had with many events before this one. In the short weeks since she’d moved from school into his townhome, Emma had found her footing within the ton. Cal couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride as she conquered society one smile at a time.

The waltz ended, and her dance partner led her, with obvious reluctance, toward where Cal waited. Emma’s cheeks dimpled prettily at her partner, the picture of demure beauty.

What an act. She might be a handful, but he loved her unreservedly. No doubt after tonight, she would have an even larger league of suitors following her about like ducklings in a line after their mama. The drawing room would look like a hothouse by this time tomorrow.

Across the chalky floor, a patroness led several young men, and some not-so-young men, toward them, with a determined expression that signaled more introductions. Almack’s wasn’t the place to play loosey-goosey with niceties. Within these walls, etiquette ruled as king. Even Prinny needed to behave if he expected to stay. Although, since Prinny was nearly king, he may hold more sway with the powers that be.

Eagle-eyed patronesses and their social constrictions had felt claustrophobic on those rare Wednesday evenings when Cal had attended Almack’s as nothing more than an eligible bachelor. But as Emma gathered attention, those myriad rules were a comfort. Within these assembly-room walls, he did not have to worry about his sister’s safety.

Emma welcomed the introductions with a cheerful curtsy. God, to have that much enthusiasm. She was probably reining in the need to bounce on her toes while pretending to be the perfectly polished gem of femininity their parents had paid that school to create. At least the gentlemen were circumspect enough to not let drool dribble off their chins when facing Emma’s dimples, rumored dowry—and, er, assets.

The damned flask was empty, and too many hours remained to smile through. Hell and blast. If given the option of escaping in a hack and leaving early like his friend, Cal would jump at the chance.

Three torturous hours later, a footman finally closed the carriage door behind them, and Cal breathed a sigh of relief.

“Didn’t you think it was the loveliest evening?” Emma launched into a retelling of the night, hardly stopping to breathe between sentences, while Cal rested his head against the wall of the carriage and closed his eyes.

Her excited summary lasted through the entire ride home and continued as she trailed behind him into the library, where Cal poured himself a drink.

“Seeing you enjoy yourself made me happy for you. I couldn’t be prouder.” That stretched his diplomacy as far as it would go tonight. After an evening of watching men he personally knew consider his sister in a carnally appreciative way, he’d wanted to start throwing gentlemen—using the term loosely—out of the room by their lapels. This was his baby sister. Didn’t they know that only a few short years before she’d been in pigtails and catching frogs to put in the governess’s bed? Now she possessed bouncy, soft bits that scrambled men’s brains and that Cal would prefer to pretend didn’t exist. He missed the pigtails and pinafores.

“Perhaps you will find the future Lady Carlyle at one of these events. Wouldn’t that be grand? If we both had weddings this summer? Or maybe next spring—we wouldn’t want people watching my waistline after a rushed engagement.”

No, they wouldn’t want that. Calvin let her talk, giving an occasional grunt that she’d interpret however she wished. A lifetime of experience had taught him that those words rattling around within Emma would come out no matter what. She even talked in her sleep, as if the day’s leftover syllables needed an escape.

Such a drastic difference between the siblings. The first time he’d visited the Marriage Mart, his reaction had been nothing like this. It had been a disquieting experience to see the speculative gleam in women’s eyes and wonder if they were weighing his fortune and looks against the chance that he’d grow into the kind of man his father was. It made one feel like produce on a fruit seller’s cart, examined for soft spots and signs of rot before anyone committed to a purchase.

In the end, his talent with growing his personal fortune, and those of his friends, went a long way toward encouraging society to ignore his father’s indiscreet mating habits. The man used less self-control than most animals, so the term was apt.

“Didn’t you think Lord Roxbury’s shoulders were divine?” Emma sighed dreamily.

“Am I really the person you should talk to about this?” He settled into his chair and hoped she would run out of air soon so he could go to bed. The chatter intruded on his favorite place in the entire house. This chair had been a peaceful oasis until now. Last year, when his best friend Amesbury stayed with him while wooing his now wife, the evenings had usually ended with the two of them sitting in these chairs, winding down from the day. Conversations had been far more limited, and Amesbury hadn’t drunk his brandy—unlike Cal’s sister, who obviously believed she was pulling one over on him by sneaking a nip now and then. This used to be a bachelor home. Those were the days.

“Who else should I talk to about these things? You’re basically the only person I know in London besides my Saint Albans friends. I can’t talk to Henrietta until tomorrow, and Clementine glared at me tonight, so she might be jealous.”

She had a point. Emma’s success in London meant the gentlemen and hostesses welcomed her, but the implied hierarchy of diamond of the first water set her apart from many other debutantes. Lord willing, Emma would make more friends soon, so she could save these talks for a gaggle of giggling ladies. And yes, Miss Clementine Waters’s jealousy of Emma’s success this evening had been obvious to everyone there.

“Roxbury has an unsavory reputation with the ladies that would make our father proud. As to shoulders—” Calvin shook his head, not quite believing he’d given in to this conversation. “I can see why you’d find them impressive. But you must remember I spend a lot of time with Amesbury. Everyone else is tiny by comparison. My metric is significantly skewed.” He sighed and closed his eyes.

“True. That man is as big as a barn. Trust me, Lord Roxbury’s shoulders were delicious in that evening coat. I thought he’d pop a seam.” The rustle of skirts, followed by the light thud of her slippers hitting the floor, meant she’d taken her place beside him, sprawling with her stocking feet slung over the arms of the chair like the hoyden she truly was. Cal knew her so well, he could paint a picture in his mind based entirely on the sounds she made.

He opened his eyes to level a look at her. “Roxbury runs with a fast crowd. I have heard nothing about him being on the lookout for a wife, so don’t set your heart in that direction. Enjoy the flirtation—a light flirtation—and the dances, but keep your eyes open. Be on your guard.”

She pouted her bottom lip. “You sound like an overprotective papa.”

“No, I sound like an overprotective brother, which is far worse. A papa would not know these men as peers. I’ve seen Roxbury drunk. I’ve heard how he speaks of women. Why not look towards someone kind and safe? Someone honest.”

“Someone boring, you mean?”

“What about Hardwick? He’s not boring, but he is a stand-up fellow. He’s honest. And he’ll come into his fortune soon. Earlier if he marries.” Cal tried to sound casual, but subterfuge had never been his strength.

“The scrawny redhead you cart around with you like an accessory?” The horrified scrunched-up face was not a pleasant look on her. “I hardly think I need to set my sights as low as that. You must be desperate for me to not encourage Roxbury if you’re pushing me towards Mr. Hardwick.” She studied Cal until he grew uncomfortable. That searching look could pull secrets from a dead man. “Have you already said something to Hardwick? Are you playing matchmaker, brother mine?”

Cal refused to meet her eyes. The joking offer he’d made to Puppy earlier in the evening lingered in his mind.

“You have, haven’t you? Oh, you beast! What did he say?” She would relish the failure of Cal’s attempt at pairing her off with someone who wouldn’t hurt her the way their parents had repeatedly hurt each other.

“Refused the whole plan, then emptied my flask and left me alone to deal with you.”

“Maybe I could like him after all,” she wheezed through a belly laugh.

A knock on the library’s door proved a welcome interruption. “Come in!”

Higgins entered with a note on the silver salver. “A message from Mr. Hardwick, my lord. One of his urchins delivered it but did not wait for a reply.”

Odd. The street kids knew if they waited for an answer, they’d collect payment for the reply. The Puppy hoarded his salary like a dragon clinging to gold, but he loved sharing coin with the children in the neighborhood of that hovel he rented. They came in handy when Cal sent Puppy digging around London in search of information. Children witnessed far more than people realized. That this one hadn’t darted around to the kitchen to wait while they begged treats from Cook meant no reply was expected.

Emma’s brows knit. “Is everything all right?”

The note was brief and to the point. Very Adam.

“He’s going home to Northumberland. The vicar in his village—essentially the only decent father figure he has—is not doing well. Adam leaves on the early mail coach.”

“Northumberland? He might as well ride to the moon. Why take the mail when he can borrow one of our carriages? I’m sure you would have offered,” she said.

“Because he’s a stubborn mule. Refuses to accept help most of the time and gets huffy when I offer. He won’t even take a room here as part of his employment. Claims he has everything he needs in that drafty single room he rents.”

“Then I wish him safe travels. It will be a while before you can continue your misguided matchmaking. That’s something, at least.”

Cal folded the note, with its neat, loopy penmanship, then tucked it into a pocket. “I’m going to bed, brat. I suggest you do the same. And stay out of my brandy.”

Chapter Two

They say time marches on, but when it marched through Northumberland, it must have bypassed the village of Warford to sow seeds of change elsewhere. The dirt road that ran through town with the pub at one end and the church marking the far boundary was as rutted as it had always been. No new buildings pushed those boundaries farther, and on the streets the same signs hung—nothing called attention to a fresh business venture.

She adjusted the satchel she’d packed for the journey, and stepped back to avoid the carriage wheels as the coach pulled away. It was odd to move, assume an entirely new life, and return to find that the only thing changed was her.

About three miles beyond the village stood the cold, solid stone house where the Hardwick twins had lived in misery for five years after their parents died. The small manor squatted on the land, as unyielding and lacking in whimsy as their uncle.

Memories of their time with their parents were warm, centered on their small family’s contented life in the country. After the reading of their parents’ will, the children had arrived on Milton’s doorstep, and the memories of their time there were decidedly darker.

For children reeling from the loss of their parents and their comfortable life, there’d been one haven in the town. The vicar and his son had become a small pocket of normalcy, affection, and acceptance when everything else was topsy-turvy. Milton had refused to pay for a governess, so the twins had attended lessons with the other village children at the vicarage until Adam was old enough to be sent away to school.

Vicar Arcott had helmed the church’s pulpit, confronting sinners and comforting parishioners, for as long as anyone could remember. But during those hours of lessons, it had been his steady demeanor, calming voice, and gentle affection for all the children that had made her feel safe when everything else seemed tumultuous.

John, the vicar’s son, had become a dear friend and readily accepted that the twins were a team. Where one went, the other followed.

The small vicarage stood behind the stone church that dated from the Norman times, content to exist in the shadow of the Lord’s house as the centuries slowly passed. The blue paint on the door faded in a diagonal line where the sun hit it each day before continuing on to shine through the stained-glass window of the church.

Beyond the vicarage lay the village graveyard. In the third row, fourth from the end, a simple headstone read “Ophelia Hardwick 1795–1808.” John had written that he’d planted and groomed a small patch of flowers on the grave. Spring came later in these parts, but tiny petals would just be unfurling. A splash of cheerful color in a place of loss.

The wind whipped, flinging mist like needles and threatening to dislodge the hat Cal had passed along last week. A carriage rumbled by, and she tilted her face down toward the ground so no one could identify the lone figure standing before the church.

John opened the door to the vicarage, his familiar face creased with lines of stress and the grief one feels when they know loss is imminent. He sagged against the wood frame. “Oh, thank God, Phee. He’s been asking for you for days.”

Although the relief soaking John’s voice was a welcome balm of familiarity, the name felt like a slap. “Don’t call me that.” A furtive look over her shoulder showed the surrounding area free of lurkers.

After eleven years, Ophelia knew the first rule in assuming someone else’s identity was to be them in every possible way. The endeavor required complete commitment—all or nothing. Think like them, dress like them, talk like them. If she tried to keep the real her alive in any way, this would fail. She must be Adam. Most days she felt more like her brother than herself.

Ophelia, the adolescent girl she used to be and the woman she would become, lived in a tiny iron box in the recesses of her mind, under piles of chains and locks. Phee allowed herself to think of the future only under very specific circumstances. And standing on the doorstep of the vicarage with her gravestone only a few yards away was neither the time nor the place.

“I am Adam. Do not forget it when we are in public.”

“Public? You’re practically in the door already.” John rolled his eyes but stepped aside for her to enter.

When she shouldered past him, Phee threw a brotherly elbow to his gut. “Practically in the door is not actually in the door. Let’s get inside before someone hears you.”

“Is that her?” came a warbled question from the next room.

“Yes, Father,” John called. “We will be there in a moment.” He turned to Phee, all traces of teasing gone. “You need to prepare yourself. He isn’t well. Every morning I expect him to simply not wake. He’s weak and only a fraction of the man he used to be. Physically, at least. Mentally, he’s still sharp, thank God.”

Emaciation and illness were not much of a shock after years of living in London’s poorer neighborhoods. Here in the villages of Northumberland, neighbors relied on one another to help when needed. While people were people, no matter where she roamed, Phee noticed in the city that after a certain point the poor—and often the sick or those who would never recover from the war—became invisible to the stronger masses, who frequently weren’t even willing to make eye contact. Like ghosts, the stick figures of the poor drifted among the living, waiting to cross over.

To think of Vicar Arcott in such a way felt wrong on every level, but she nodded and braced herself. John’s father, while not the largest man in the room, always made up for his lack of physical stature with a booming voice and an all-encompassing smile. Once he opened his mouth or caught you in his intelligent gaze, he no longer seemed like an average man.

Wisdom was his first language, and kindness his second. Although he’d been present for only five years of her childhood, he’d been a father figure to her, reinforcing in her young mind that good people still existed. That not every adult male manipulated others with his position or used words as weapons.

In the vicar’s room, open curtains welcomed what meager light the day’s sun offered, while an oil lamp next to the narrow bed filled in the remaining shadows. Vicar Arcott’s pallor seemed gray, and the blue eyes that always held kindness and unconditional love for her now had a watery, blurred quality to them, as if on the edge of tears.

A sickroom often had a certain scent—the sweet syrup of medicine combined with a body fighting disease or the ravages of time. Being a kind man, the best she’d ever known, he should smell like butterscotch candies and sandalwood shaving soap. Not like this.

She sat on the chair beside the bed, and John perched on a stool at his father’s feet. Her hand found Vicar Arcott’s on the faded quilt, and with a movement that looked to take more effort than it should, he rested his other hand on top, like they’d done a thousand times before. The last time she’d seen him, his fingers hadn’t been this bony. But then, it had been a year. No, nearly two.

“You’re too thin, sweetheart. Don’t they have food in London?” Arcott’s reedy voice would never carry from the pulpit to the vestibule these days.

“I don’t need much.” Encroaching tears strangled the forced cheer.

The effort of speaking made Arcott close his eyes, although he kept his face turned toward her. “That uncle of yours is still providing for you? There’s a rumor around the village that Milton had several large investments fail. He’s fired most of his staff in the name of economizing.”

As usual, the mention of her uncle made a ball of unease bunch in her gut. “We all know he has never been generous.” Or loving, or warm, or kind to small animals—let alone young children left under his care. That he’d become the guardian of her and her brother spoke more to their lack of living relatives than to a preference on her parents’ part. At least, she hoped so, since no one in their right mind would give Uncle Milton children on purpose. Econo. . .