Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress (2 page)

It was a dreadful metaphor and Averil wasn’t at all gushy or girly, but that was exactly how she imagined the sensation at the time. She’d thought he was about to come across the room and speak to her, but then Beth was clasping her arm, worrying they would miss the rest of the opera, and when Averil turned her head again he was talking to the Honorable Kenneth McLaren. Much later, weeks later, the Honorable Kenneth met her somewhere or other, and happened to mention that someone at the opera had asked for her name.

“I didn’t introduce you,” he added, “didn’t think it was quite the thing, Lady Averil. His reputation,” he added, with a grimace and a shrug, as if she should know all about it.

“Averil!”

Four pairs of eyes were fixed impatiently on her. Waiting.

“Oh, very well. His name is Rufus, Earl of Southbrook.”

Their collective gasp was very satisfactory.

She spoke hurriedly. “It is ridiculous, I know. The man is a stranger to me—I know he has a bad reputation. I’ve never spoken to him. But there is something about him that appeals to the more frivolous side of my nature. An impossible fantasy.”

“That scar on his face,” Marissa whispered. “Is it from a duel? A scuffle in some dark alley with ruffians? And yet he is very handsome despite it.”

“And that air of danger that seems to cling to him.” Olivia shivered pleasurably. “Is he a man who would protect a maiden in distress? Or seduce her?”

“I’m certain he has some deep, dark secret that needs fetching out into the light and healing,” said Tina, practical as always.

“By the kiss of a woman, and that woman is Averil!” Eugenie had them laughing again.

“There, now, are you happy?” Averil asked, smoothing her skirts and tucking her heavy wheat-colored hair behind her ears—the carefully arranged curls were already falling out, as they always did. Her cheeks were pink and she felt warm and shaky at the very thought of kissing Lord Southbrook. It wasn’t going to happen, she reminded herself. It was all in jest. Rufus, Earl of Southbrook, was nothing more than a piece of theater to amuse her friends—and the man she dreamed of at night in her bed where her thoughts were nobody’s business but her own.

They filled their glasses with more champagne and lifted them in a toast. “Let us drink to Averil and her earl!”

“To Averil and the earl!”

Averil drank, too, laughing.

Tempting fate.

Mayfair, London

Some months later

R
ufus Blainey, Earl of Southbrook, was angry.

No, he was furious.

His uncle, the Honorable James Blainey, had returned to London from taking the waters in Bath, and instead of staying put in the Mayfair town house, as instructed, had gone off seeking the pleasures to be found in the capital. Rufus knew only too well what that meant. Gaming houses, cards, dice, money changing hands—and not in James’s favor. Luck had deserted James twenty years ago and yet still he believed that one day he’d find her again.

Rufus clenched his fists and his valet backed up a few steps, eyeing him uneasily. “Finish it, Gregson,” he ordered. “I have to go out almost immediately.”

To make matters worse, if they could get any worse, today he had visited his bank and heard some dire news. He supposed it was his own fault for not being more vigilant, but he’d believed his uncle when he swore he’d never visit another gaming club again. What Rufus had thought of as his uncle’s annoying hobby was, in fact, a severe affliction. Gaming was like a drug to James, and once within its sphere he was powerless to resist.

And now it looked as if Rufus would lose Southbrook Castle.

The place was chilly and gloomy but it was his and despite the rumor that Rufus was a coldhearted villain, he loved it.

The money to save it would have to be found, but from where?

“See that a room is prepared for Mr. James, Gregson. He will be leaving for Southbrook in the morning. I don’t want him going missing. Do you understand?”

The valet nodded earnestly. “The room is to be locked, sir.”

“Locked up tight.”

Soon Uncle James would be far away from harm, but it was too late. The damage was done. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely James’s fault. He was just one in a long line of Southbrook wasters who had brought the family to this end. But whichever of them was to blame, they were now so far in debt that they would lose Southbrook and the London house. He’d be one of those shabby gentlemen living on the Continent, no doubt with James in tow, moving from room to room, one step away from the creditors.

He shuddered.

Rufus had been in tight situations before and found a way out. But this time . . . He tried to rally himself. There must be a way out. There must be something he could do, there
must
be.

Gregson had returned, his face whiter than before. “My lord,” he said, eyes like saucers. “Master Eustace can’t be found.”

Rufus frowned at his hapless valet. “I haven’t got time for this, Gregson, I have to find Mr. James.”

“But my lord . . .” Gregson was wringing his hands. “Master Eustace left a note to say he had gone with Mr. James to the East End, to keep an eye on him for you.”

Rufus, who had thought things could not get any worse, felt his heart sink in his chest. His son, Eustace, was seven years old. The last place he should be was with James when he was hell-bent on pleasure.

Drat the boy!

And yet Rufus felt a measure of pride, too. Eustace had known his father would be angry that James had gone off, and he had taken it upon himself to go, too, to keep a man forty years older than him out of trouble.

His mouth quirked into an unwilling smile.

“Very well, Gregson. Get the coach around. I will take that with me.”

“And bring them both home safely, sir?”

“Yes, and bring them both home safe and sound,” Rufus replied, and refused to let any doubts enter his mind. Some years ago Rufus had been engaged by a secret government organization called The Guardians. His job had been to patrol the East End and listen in to possible seditious talk. He’d learned the narrow alleys and laneways like the back of his hand. Wherever James was, he would find him, and Eustace, too, and then he would let his temper rip at the pair of them.

A
veril tucked her shawl more closely about her, using a fold of it to cover her hair and the lower half of her face. Her clothes were the oldest she could find in her wardrobe. Some of the places she’d been to tonight were not safe for a woman like her, young and rich and upper class. The grubby streets and grubbier inhabitants disliked and distrusted her sort, and it was only the gentlemen with gold in their palms that received a friendly welcome.

“Miss?” Jackson’s ugly face peered at her from the gloom. “Are you sure you want to go on?”

Averil, who preferred “miss” to “my lady” when she was in the East End, nodded brusquely. “Of course. Is it far now?”

Averil had received news from her old nanny. She’d written that fifteen years ago Averil’s mother had ended up in a gaming house called The Tin Soldier, and that was where Jackson was taking her now.

“A few streets. Stay close, miss. Lots of pickpockets about.”

She let him lead the way, keeping close behind his musty-smelling coat. She told herself that she must not lose heart or hope. If her sister was here, somewhere, then she must be found. Before it was too late. The fact that it might already be too late was not something she wanted to dwell on.

The Tin Soldier had been more than just a gaming house. Although Jackson wouldn’t tell her exactly what, Averil imagined it catered to more than just dice and cards. There would be women, women who, like her mother, had fallen upon hard times. This was the place where her mother had spent her final months, before she was taken to the infirmary and died. Averil knew that, whatever awful things she learned at The Tin Soldier, she could not ignore this new clue. Not if she wanted to find her sister.

“I understand why you want to find her, Averil, but some things are better left alone.”

Beth had said that to her the other day, her small face etched with creases as she worried about her charge. If Beth knew where she was right now . . . But thankfully Beth was tucked up in bed and did not even realize that Averil had left the house. She had become adept at telling lies and creeping about, and although she didn’t enjoy deceiving Beth she knew she could not abandon her sister.

“Got a penny, lady?”

Startled, she looked down at the dirty elfin face peering up at her. A moment later more children appeared. Jackson yelled out. They began to run around her, circling her tighter and tighter, and laughing as she tried to escape them. They tugged at her shawl and her skirts, probably searching for a purse. Where was Jackson? Averil looked about her wildly, and saw the back of him as he hurried away. “Jackson!” she called out, just as she lost her balance, falling down onto the hard cobbles, scraping her knees and knocking all of the air out of her lungs.

For a moment she lay dazed, hearing the children running off into the deeper shadows. She lifted her head, and her eyes darted around the gloomy courtyard. What she saw did not give her much confidence in her own safety. There were people standing and sitting, a couple of them lying down, intoxicated or sleeping or both, but none of them were Jackson. Realizing that it was not safe to show weakness in this place, she began to struggle to her feet. Her skirts were torn, and her knees stung, and when she put her gloved hand down to support herself as she stood, it sank into something wet and horrible.

A strong hand slipped under her arm and another about her waist, hoisting her upright so quickly her head spun.

“Are you injured, madam?”

His voice was deep and soft, but she could hear by his accent that this was no local inhabitant of the East End. He was a gentleman.

Averil looked up.

For a moment she could not believe her own eyes. She blinked and looked again.

It was
him
. The man she dreamed of in the night. The man she’d so foolishly told her friends at Miss Debenham’s she was going to marry.

“Lady Averil Martindale,” the earl of Southbrook said, fixing her with his dark, hooded gaze. “This is turning into a most unexpected evening.”

Averil knew she was staring. She couldn’t help it. She felt quite giddy. “What . . . what are you doing here?” she blurted out. And then, realizing he must be here to visit the establishment behind her—he was a man with a reputation after all—she flushed hotly with embarrassment.

He seemed amused. Those same hooded, dark eyes surveyed her with interest.

“What are
you
doing here, Lady Averil?”

He was wearing a plain coat over his clothing but it was impeccably cut, and she caught a glimpse of an emerald-green waistcoat. His unfashionably long dark hair brushed his broad shoulders but it suited him. Gave him a certain air that women must find fascinating. As well as his scar, of course.

Despite herself, Averil’s gaze went to it. That curving scar that puckered the skin of his left cheek, drawing down the corner of his eye before vanishing into his hairline. One could only imagine what such an injury must have looked like before it healed, and how close it had come to blinding him.

Apart from the scar his face was handsome enough if a little severe. With his thin aristocratic nose, lips in a firm line, and that dark, secretive gaze, he could easily be any gentleman of wealth and breeding. But with the scar he became something else entirely.

Now that he had helped her to her feet he should have released her, but he was still holding her, his arm about her, the warm press of his palm against the small of her back, while his other hand gripped her elbow to steady her. He was so close he stole the air from her lungs, which was a rather dramatic thought for Averil, but she tended to have dramatic thoughts around the earl. Carefully, she stepped back and he dropped the grip he had upon her.

“Are you hurt?” he said curiously.

He was much taller than her five foot two inches, and she found she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

“No. I am not hurt. I . . . Jackson is here somewhere. He will take me home.”

“Jackson?” The eyebrows rose.

Of course, thought Averil, he would think the worst! Her gray eyes flashed. “He’s my . . .” Averil wondered how she could explain Jackson to the earl. “He’s a detective. Of sorts. I am trying to find someone who is missing, and he is helping me.”

The earl considered. “This isn’t a safe place, Lady Averil.”

“I am perfectly safe and I know what I’m doing,” she said sharply. “Why should it be any more dangerous for me than for you, my lord? And yet here you are wandering the streets.”

His brows came down into a frown. “I am used to ‘wandering the streets,’ as you call it. And if you think you are perfectly safe then you are either a fool or extremely naïve.”

“I am neither. Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

Averil tried to take a step away from him but a pain shot through her knee. It was so severe that it made her cry out and stumble, almost falling again.

“Come here.” Through a wave of dizziness she heard the earl, and felt his arms catch her up again. But this time he didn’t stop at steadying her, he actually lifted her, cradling her in his arms as if she were a feather.

Averil tried to see his expression, but they were walking away from the courtyard and he was just a silhouette against the street lamp. The ache in her knee was beginning to subside, and she was able to consider that this might not be a very good idea. The earl had a reputation, and although Averil wasn’t entirely sure what that reputation consisted of, she knew he was rarely invited into society. Something he had done had made him very much persona non grata.

Lord Martindale, Averil’s father, had been completely respectable, and by cutting himself and Averil off from her mother, he had retained the respect of the society he moved in. Not so Lady Anastasia Martindale. She’d become a social outcast, and her shadow had followed Averil all her life. So what was it that the earl of Southbrook had done to earn society’s disapproval?