Read When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella Online

Authors: Megan Frampton

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Victorian, #General

When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella (2 page)

BOOK: When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella
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She did miss Cat.

The house wasn’t small, of course, it was a residence fit for an earl, but it wasn’t overly large either, so perhaps it wouldn’t be too difficult for even a nonhousekeeper to straighten up a few rooms.

From the way it sounded, having even a housekeeper was a concession. Perhaps the earl didn’t eat. Or make any sort of mess. Or speak with people.

Or maybe he liked doing all the cooking and cleaning himself, although that would make him remarkably different from any other members of the nobility she’d heard of. Mostly noblemen liked to talk to other noblemen and look at attractive women. She’d never heard anything about their liking to cook or clean.

But all this pondering about who the earl might be or what he wanted, was not going to get done what she wanted, which was removing the Dust Army so there was just warrior Annabelle.

Leaving the valise in the hall, she went through each of the rooms on the ground floor—sitting room, dining room, pantry, and a music room. Downstairs was the kitchen, which you could get to only by descending a small narrow staircase. The kitchen itself was dusty, but did not appear to have mice, and was relatively tidy if not precisely clean.

So, she would do the main hallway, the kitchen, and her own bedroom. She’d save the earl’s bedroom for the morning; there would be plenty of time to take care of it, then.

She returned to the ground floor, then hoisted her valise up and walked up the staircase to the first floor. As expected, the hallway opened onto a variety of bedrooms, with the largest one at the back of the house where it was presumably the most quiet. Again, while the rooms were neat, there was a massive amount of dust, and Annabelle had to take her kerchief from her gown and tie it over her nose and mouth so as not to breathe in too much of the dust. She put her valise into the smallest bedroom, then headed back downstairs to find cleaning implements and hopefully not very many mice.

H
ours later, Annabelle was exhausted, but the hallway and the kitchen had been vanquished, at least, as had her worst gown, which would need its own cleaning to regain its title of worst; right now it was definitely the Most Worst, and that was putting it kindly. The kitchen had taken the longest, and she really did hope he didn’t want to eat much, because if she never set foot in that kitchen again she would be a happy woman.

Not that she wasn’t happy now, of course. Or rather, not that she wasn’t fine. That’s what she said whenever anyone asked how she was—“fine.” Fine with being a fallen woman who was trying to get up, fine with working at the agency with her best friends, fine with having no one to lavish love on besides Cat, fine with ruining her worst dress if it meant snagging an earl for a client. Fine with all of that, and fine with being so bone tired she was almost glad there was no food, because now she could just take herself off to bed without worrying about eating. There would be time to eat tomorrow, before the earl arrived at midday. As well as clean his bedroom. She’d shut the doors to all the bedrooms on the first floor but the small one she’d claimed for her own; there was no bedroom off the kitchen, which was the normal place for a housekeeper to sleep, she knew, but she was secretly relieved because of the potential for mouseness with no Cat.

Meanwhile, her bed was calling. Well, no, actually it wasn’t, because wouldn’t that be an odd thing, if an inanimate object called out to her? And if that happened, what else would speak? Probably her shoes would chime in and complain about how much time she spent wearing them. And it was impossible to even imagine the endless complaints the teakettle would have:
I’m hot, I’m cold, I’m empty, I’m full, make your mind up already.
It was better, then, that nothing called out to her.

Except the bed, which she was absolutely fine with answering.

Annabelle walked wearily upstairs, holding the railing as though it were propping her up. The room she’d chosen as her own was . . .
fine
, the walls papered with blue wallpaper that had birds and flowers on it. It was pretty, and for a moment, Annabelle wished she could just fly into the wallpaper and take up residence there. It would be so much easier than all of this work.

But there’d be no Caroline or Lily, who was now the duchess, or the agency—or even Cat. Or if there were Cat, Cat would make it his mission to eat her if she were a bird in wallpaper. So being a bird in wallpaper was not that good an idea after all.

She drew off her absolute worst possible gown and dropped it on the floor—the floor was likely cleaner than the gown—and then removed her corset and dropped that on top of the gown, leaving her in her shift.

She was too tired to unearth her nightgown, so she just opened the covers and crawled in, feeling herself fall asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

 

A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

A housekeeper is similar to a man (even though she is always a woman!): She needs to know everything about a particular subject without ever having to do it herself.

CHAPTER TWO

I
f there was one thing that Matthew, Earl of Selkirk, despised more than being late, it was being early.

“We’re here, my lord,” the cabbie said, his accent dropping half of the consonants as though they were not fit to be mentioned.

Being early meant there was wasted time. Matthew hated to waste time. If he’d been late, chances were that some required work had delayed him; being early just meant he had not planned properly.

In this particular case, he had not planned properly so much as to make him early by half a day. He could have spent that time doing more research into his uncle’s bank or reviewing his own accounts or translating more of the works he’d found in the attic into current language or any number of interesting things.

He would not be entering a rented house in London at eight o’clock in the evening.

He stepped out of the carriage onto the street, the streetlights making it nearly as bright as daytime. A waste of money, surely, and if there was one thing Matthew hated as much as being late or being early, it was wasting money. Were London’s inhabitants so delicate they couldn’t find their way in the dark?

Not to mention, likely any English earl wouldn’t worry about being late or early; whenever he arrived would be the proper time. But Matthew wasn’t English, he was Scottish, and despite what the earls in England might do, Matthew worked. And didn’t have much respect for anyone who didn’t work, not if they could do some good and keep themselves busy. Even though that also meant he didn’t always have respect for his fellow Scottish lords.

“Sure you don’t want me to carry your trunk in, my lord?” the cabbie said, looking skeptically at either Matthew or the trunk, Matthew wasn’t sure.

Not that it mattered.

“No, thank you,” he said, reaching into his pockets for the fare. “Here you go.”

The cabbie looked at what Matthew had given him and raised his head, scowling. “Scottish, are you?”

As though the man could not tell by Matthew’s accent.

“Yes, Scottish.” This was not the time to discuss one’s origins. It was late, even though he was early, and Matthew’s trunk still remained on the back of the cab. “If you don’t mind?” he said, gesturing to the trunk.

The man shook his head, as though in disgust, and hauled the trunk off the back of the cab onto the sidewalk. He didn’t even look at Matthew before vaulting up onto the seat of the cab, uttering some inarticulate grunt to get his horse moving.

Matthew felt in his waistcoat pocket for the key Mr. Bell had given him, checking for perhaps the thousandth time that day. Reassured, he bent down to the trunk and grabbed the handles on either side.

He’d been traveling all day, sitting on a train, and hadn’t gotten his usual exercise of walking, so it felt good to work his muscles. Muscles that felt as though they were perfectly happy to have a day off from what he normally did to them, judging by the twinge that followed as he hoisted the trunk up against his body.

It couldn’t be helped, though. The cabbie was long gone, there was no one else on the street, and he’d have felt like an idiot if he had to ask for help anyway. He hated asking for help as much as he hated wasting time. Or money—that, as much as his need for quiet, was what made him only grudgingly accept the necessity of a housekeeper during his stay. He didn’t see the point of anything more, anybody more; it would be wasteful to have people around when he was just working. But he had to have someone, that was made painfully clear. But thankfully she wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, so he would have at least twelve hours to himself.

Perhaps there would be a comfortable chair, and if he could just manage to find a glass, he would be able to relax with a bit of whisky before going to bed.

And then tomorrow he would begin to focus on the task at hand.

“W
ha’ will be a traitor knave? Wha’ will fill a something something’s grave?” Matthew sang as he downed the last sip of whisky, realizing he hadn’t had anything to eat for nearly half a day. That was very poor planning on his part. A definite misstep, and doubtless caused by the whole being-early fracas.

Well, it was far too late for him to go out anywhere. Plus his bed was waiting, and the room was, if not spinning, then a little wobbly around the edges. He definitely couldn’t focus enough to read, which was his usual evening pursuit. And he didn’t know where the library was anyway, if it was here, and even if he could find it, it probably didn’t have what he liked to read.

He glanced around to locate his trunk, which he would have sworn he’d dragged in here. Yes! There it was, just inside the door. But it would be too hard to carry the trunk up the stairs, especially since he also wanted to bring the bottle to bed with him. He looked at the trunk, then the bottle, then the trunk again.

Of course.
He could solve this with logic, as he always did. He tucked the bottle under his arm and approached the trunk as though it might rear up and bite him. Then he undid the clasps and flung the lid up.

His nightshirt was right on top, the most logical place for it to be. He congratulated himself, as he often did, on applying logic to even the most minuscule of tasks. It made things so much easier and wasted much less time. Therefore, his nightshirt was on the top, so he could put it on immediately, his toiletries were just below, and so on. He picked the garment up, then tucked it under the same arm that held the whisky bottle. Now for the stairs.

Where were they? Oh, yes, just to the right of the room he was in now.
He’d only seen this room and the entryway, but thus far, it seemed like a pleasant house. He had been dreading the thought of coming to London—his first time here, and he had not made the trip willingly—but if he had this place to come home to in the evening, a quiet, restful house, he might escape unscathed by his experience.

The stairs weren’t as hard to conquer as he’d thought they might be; true, one of the steps appeared to lunge up at him, but he righted himself at the last minute and was able to maintain control of the bottle.

His nightshirt was not so fortunate, however; as he reached the first floor landing, he noticed a strong aroma of whisky. The bottle had leaked, but it seemed most of it had fallen on the fabric.

Thankfully, there was no chance of anyone seeing him in his bed. It was the most practical decision to sleep naked, so that was what he would do.

He dropped the spirits-soaked garment on the floor of the landing and entered the closest room, the only one with an open door. He’d investigate his new lodgings in the morning; right now he needed to sleep.

Once inside, he drew his jacket off, then his cravat, then drew his shirt over his head. He lowered his hands to his boots, but that was awkward, given his current state of inebriation, so he just sat down on the floor and took them off, then yanked his trousers down.

The moon shone bright through one of the windows, and he was grateful not to have to trust his unsteady hand with a candle. There was plenty of light to see the bed, just there in the corner.

He drew the covers back and slid in, expecting a cold, empty bed.

Instead, he found it to be quite warm, and filled with another occupant.

 

A Belle’s Guide to Household Management

Beating the rug does not mean you engage to trounce the rug in a game of cards.

CHAPTER THREE

A
nnabelle had never been so comfortable before, or at least it felt that way. The bed was soft and warm, the house was quiet, just a slight rustling of something, fabric maybe? Then the feel of another body easing into—

“What? Who? What are you doing in here?” she said, kicking at the other occupant of the bed, who was not only someone she’d not invited in, but definitely not anyone she’d even ever met before.

It was light enough in the room, thanks to the moonlight, to see it was a man, which did not reassure her. From what she saw of his expression, however, he was just as startled as she was to find her there. Well, she was not startled to find herself there, but she was startled to find him.

Perhaps she would not be the best person to lead the How to Speak to Annabelle course, since she barely understood herself what she was thinking.

“Who are you?” His voice held a foreign accent, but it was his obvious outrage that she listened to the most.

“Who am I?” she said, pushing herself back into the corner of the bed, her back making a comforting contact with the wall. “Who am I? I am supposed to be here, whereas you . . . ”

“Are supposed to be here also,” he replied, before she could finish her sentence.

And the foreign accent clicked it all into place, and she felt her stomach whoosh in panic and terror and . . .

“You’re the earl. And you’re early.”

His face did not change, not even when she stressed “early” as in
earl-y
.

BOOK: When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella
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