Earl of Scarborough Page 2

  Bluish gray with white lines marbled throughout, that small, unremarkable pebble had seen him through one trying situation after another for two decades.

  As he turned to depart, the Earls of Sharonford and Keyworth glanced up from their nearby chairs, their expressions open and friendly.

  “Calling it a night?” Keyworth asked, bestowing a genial half-grin.

  Ansley inclined his head. “Yes. The hour grows late.”

  In truth, it was only half-past ten. But he retired at precisely eleven o’clock every night. At least he tried to.

  Sharonford set his glass down, and leaning back into his chair, crossed his arms. “Several of us are venturing to Tattersall’s tomorrow. Would you like to come along?”

  Keyworth sent him a startled glance before swinging his attention back to Ansley. “Excellent notion. Do join us, Scarborough. It’d be us, you, Dandridge, Sterling, and Pennington.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse the offer before he remembered he was in need of another horse to complete his matched team. Polly had simply been too old to continue pulling conveyances, and he’d ordered the sweet mare retired to Fawtonbrooke Hall. Besides, the other men mentioned were already acquaintances he knew well.

  Squeezing his fist around the stone, he slowly counted to ten and mentally visualized his appointment book.

  Yes. Yes. A trip to Tattersall’s might be managed.

  He did have time tomorrow afternoon after he met with the registry office about hiring a new housekeeper, a fitting with his tailor, and his weekly appointment with Druthers, his man-of-affairs.

  Dear rheumatic Mrs. Bloomfield had reached an age where she no longer could perform her duties adequately. She muddled along fairly well at his London townhouse, but Fawtonbrooke Hall was beyond her now. However, she refused to retire with the generous pension he’d offered until she’d properly trained her replacement.

  “Few women have the head, patience, stamina, attention to detail, or organizational skills for a housekeeper’s duties, my lord,” she avowed again yesterday morning, plopping her gnarled fingers on her plump hips. “I could never sleep a wink if I left before a competent woman assumed my duties.”

  In other words, a woman she’d trained to recognize and skillfully handle his peculiarities.

  He’d been remiss in hiring a new housekeeper, mainly because he despised change. But this morning, upon witnessing the poor woman’s painful attempts to dust, his guilty conscience had demanded he do the necessary.

  “I do need to purchase a horse,” he admitted. “My afternoon is free. What time did you plan on attending?”

  Keyworth and Sharonford exchanged a glance before Keyworth lifted a shoulder. “Three o’clock?”

  Three o’clock. Yes, that will work.

  “I’ll be there.” Not altogether certain what to make of the friendly overture, he forced his mouth to arc upward. It was expected, wasn’t it? “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Quite welcome,” Keyworth said as Sharonford dipped his chin in agreement.

  With a brief nod, Ansley departed the parlor. A few minutes later, he accepted his hat, gloves, and cane from the majordomo; an interesting fellow with bright curly red hair, a proclivity for swearing most foully beneath his breath, and for taking frequent nips from the flask he believed no one knew rested inside his somber black livery jacket.

  “I presume we’ll have the pleasure of your company on Thursday, my lord?” The butler said with his typical aplomb.

  “Yes, Henley.”

  As Ansley had put in an appearance every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three years, seven months, and one week whenever he was in town, the butler’s conclusion wasn’t a brilliant deduction.

  What would the chap have done if he’d said no? He’d return tomorrow instead. Dressed in a kilt and toting bagpipes. Ansley owned both and was a damned fine piper, if he said so himself.

  That drew a genuine, wry grin from him. Not only did uncharacteristic disgruntlement plague him tonight, he’d held his biting sarcasm in check. What in Hades was wrong with him? Mayhap he ought to be examined by a physician.

  Henley opened the door then stood aside for Ansley to pass. “Have a good evening, your lordship.”

  “Thank you.”

  After rain had fallen in torrents from the gun-metal sky all day, the weather had turned unexpectedly mild for an October in London. He’d impulsively elected to walk to the club, quite putting out his coachman, standing with his team and carriage at the ready.

  Another deviation from Ansley’s normal hum-drum, comfortable routine. Interesting and curious, that in recent weeks, not only had he diverged from his usual habits multiple times, he’d not plunged headlong into the mental chaos such departure from his norm typically wrought.

  Could it be, at long last, his affliction had begun to dissipate?

  However, unlike many of his softer, flabbier peers, he preferred physical exertion whenever he had the opportunity. Exercise helped calm him.

  Nonetheless, the night air had grown damnably cold. If he were the type, he would’ve hunched into his coat and pulled the collar up against the biting wind determined to find its way to his bare skin.

  However, he was not the sort to ever mistreat a collar in such a blasphemous way. Hence with his back ramrod straight and his cane held at a precise angle, he trotted down the five smooth steps to the pavement. His residence was but a few streets away. The brisk walk would invigorate and warm him. With luck, he’d sleep like a well-fed babe tonight.

  Even so, boredom beleaguered him, and he was unable to pinpoint a precise reason for his malcontent.

  Within minutes, he became aware of shuffling footsteps echoing behind him. Subtly changing his grip on his cane—which hid a razor-sharp short sword—he strolled another several feet. Pretending to inspect the iridescent half-moon, and then the white moth flitting frantically around a sooty streetlamp, he casually angled his head and surveyed the lane behind him as he strode along.

  Even at this late hour, the streets weren’t deserted. Deuced difficult, however, to distinguish which chaps were about their own business from those with more nefarious intents. With a flick of his thumb, he released the clasp of the sword’s sheath. As he adjusted his grip, he rounded the street corner, prepared to draw the blade.

  Closed for the day, several quaint shops lined the tidy street. Above them, mellow, golden light glowed in the windows of the shop-owners’ living quarters. A bit farther along, on either side of the cobbled lane, perched a respectable lodging house and a hotel as well as a livery stable.

  Ansley had taken this route hundreds of times, and never once had a sod dared to challenge him.

  Casting a swift, guarded glance over his shoulder, he swore beneath his breath as a bear-of-a-man trundled up behind him, wielding a wicked-looking knife. The blade glinted as the scraggly, bearded brute twisted it back and forth, his stance low and aggressive. And—bloody hell—practiced.

  In general, this wasn’t a neighborhood gentleman were robbed in. He would’ve expected thieves near the docks and certainly, scuttling about in Whitechapel or Seven Dials. Only an idiot ventured to the latter alone at night.

  This thug was desperate, stupid, or inebriated to his fleshy jowls. Likely all three.

  Ansley exhaled a long, irritated breath, coming to a stop. Might as well see this inconvenience done with. He’d not make his bed by eleven, in any event.

  Casually, as if he meant to ask the bloke for the time, he rotated to face his harasser. He most assuredly did not appreciate this interruption in his regimen.

  “May I suggest you bathe on occasion? You might actually be able to sneak up upon your intended victim then.” He wrinkled his nose, the fetid odors of stale gin, sour sweat, unwashed body, and filthy clothing floating to him on the slight breeze. “I smelled your putrid stench before I saw you.”

  The riffraff snorted then spit. He extended fat, grubby fingers. “’And over yer purse, gov.”


  What a perfectly exhausting day.

  Thank God, it would soon be over. Willow Harwood released a long-suffering sigh as she tramped along, intent on finding Taylor’s Lodging and Board. She’d been wise to make the arrangements for her accommodations in advance of her arrival in London this afternoon.

  Unwilling to spare coin for a hackney, she’d been obliged to walk several miles in the unfamiliar city, becoming lost three times. She was tired, hungry, and her feet ached in her practical half-boots.

  Nevertheless, a tiny jot of optimism lightened her step. She always tried to find the silver lining in clouds. That had been difficult to do of late, however.

  Her boot heels clicked rhythmically on the worn cobbled stones as she marched along, suppressing a yawn. She’d been up since before dawn. Though this was a well-maintained neighborhood, the air hovering over the city lay thick, cloying, and foul.

  She’d been warned of London’s stench. It was to be expected, she supposed, with so many people living within a condensed area. Still, from what she’d seen so far, the town possessed charm.

  More importantly, it also boasted bookstores, parks, and museums aplenty.

  Tomorrow, her search for a position would begin in earnest. She’d start with the registry offices recommended to her in Cambridgeshire and, to which, she’d already sent her resume and letters of recommendation. She also meant to purchase several newssheets and scour the adverts.

  For certain, someone with her educational background could find a position as a governess. Her ultimate goal was to return to Connecticut, where she’d been born and teach at a girls’ school there.

  She might be half-English, but her heart and sentiments lay entirely with America.

  A sudden, acute wave of loneliness beset her, and she closed her eyes for a blink. How much her life had changed these past eight years. Her father had died shortly after her fourteenth birthday.

  Grief-stricken, Mama had decided she wanted to return to her native England, to her father’s house. Like Papa, Grandpapa was an esteemed professor. Papa had taught at Yale University, Grandpapa, at Cambridge.

  Her mother had sold their comfortable house, and they’d packed their belongings and sailed to England. Willow had been relatively happy those first years. She’d come to adore her curmudgeon of a grandfather, and he’d continued to tutor her in a myriad of subjects.

  Mama had died three years after returning to England, and Willow had taken on overseeing her Grandfather’s household. Later, she’d volunteered at their parish and taught a few local children—mostly the offspring of servants and the working class—their letters and numbers in the makeshift classroom that had once been the house’s drawing room.

  Cambridgeshire’s residents had been polite—more so when Grandpapa had been alive—but held her American heritage against her. Pray God that wasn’t also the case with prospective employers in London.

  After all, the war between Britain and America had ended nearly three years ago. Nevertheless, she’d been unapologetic in her sympathies for her homeland. Britain had violated the United States’ maritime rights and pressed thousands of American sailors into service, to boot.

  For two years, she’d diligently tried to obtain a teaching position at a girls’ school in England. To no blasted avail. Willow strongly suspected her American heritage was to blame. Familiar frustration battered her, and her steps faltered for a breath. Eyebrows drawn into a scowl, she muttered. “So blasted unfair.”

  Then her beloved Grandpapa had grown ill with what she’d at first believed was a bad case of indigestion. If only his ailment had been so inconsequential. Rather, it had been advanced cancer.

  Aggressive and unmerciful. Unrelenting and fatal.

  He’d passed away two short months later. She’d found herself alone in a country that had never felt like home with no means of support.

  Now, she was in this strange city she’d heard so much about, lugging her stuffed valise with its hidden pocket containing her small bag of coins. The contents of which wouldn’t last more than three, or perhaps four, months if she were extremely frugal.

  Hopefully, her small trunk had already been delivered to the boarding house.

  Even after selling all the furniture and most of her possessions, there hadn’t been enough funds to purchase passage to America, let alone start over there.

  Adjusting her clasp on the umbrella she toted in her other hand, she arched her spine and winced. Her back also ached from the coach’s hard seat and the incessant pounding on the long journey here.

  She’d been squashed between a corpulent matron reeking of ale and vinegar and a shy soldier’s wife holding a chubby, cantankerous toddler with an unfortunate fondness for violent kicking.

  Anticipation quickening her steps, Willow rounded a corner. She was nearly to the boarding house. Her stomach growled, and she glanced downward, pressing her hand to her hollow middle. This morning’s small repast had long since been digested.

  However, she’d packed meat pies, apples, rolls, and hard cheese to hold her over for the first few days in London. Her mouth practically watered at the thought of the simple fare neatly wrapped in brown paper inside her valise.

  She supposed it was too much to expect a bath tonight, especially at this late hour. Perhaps she could persuade the proprietor to provide her with warm water, and she could wash the worst of the grime from her person. Arriving at her first interview looking travel-stained and smelling less than fresh wouldn’t bode well.

  Squinting in the muted half-light, she released a vexed sound.

  What was that mark on her cloak? It looked suspiciously like the imprint of a child’s shoe. The little devil. How could she have not noticed before?

  With the thumb of the hand holding the umbrella, she attempted to brush away whatever marred her cloak near her hip. Her efforts made no difference, except to transfer soil to her already tattered glove. She hadn’t another pair either.

  With a disgusted shake of her head, she focused on the lane once more. At the bizarre scene playing out before her, she shuffled to a troubled stop.

  A tall, sinewy gentleman attired in the first stare of fashion with a sword of some sort, posed in a defensive stance as a hefty, sloppily-dressed man lunged at him, knife in hand.

  Dear God.

  Her pulse thrumming loudly in her ears, and palms sweaty in her now-ruined-gloves, she frantically glanced around for someone to intervene. The street was deserted, not a soul in sight. No enthralled onlookers peeked through covertly parted draperies on the upper levels either.

  The toff appeared to be holding his own against the much heavier brute. She feared distracting him and giving the attacking cur any advantage.

  “I’m delighted to inform you, you great stinking beef wit, you won’t relieve me of my purse this evening.” An edge of droll sarcasm tinged the gentleman’s refined, well-modulated voice.

  An aristocrat?

  He sprang forward—the movement extraordinarily graceful and powerful for a man his size—and sent a button flying from his assailant’s filthy coat.

  Why, he’d done that deliberately.

  A powerful jolt speared her chest, and she slapped a palm to her bosom. As if in doing so, she could snuff the undefinable, troubling sensation. Astonishment? Respect? Incredulity? Powerless to sort through the mélange, and equally unable to haul her riveted attention from the men sparring but a few feet away, she swallowed.

  The gentleman toyed with his less-skilled opponent. Taunting and provoking. Much like a cat playing with a mouse. The outcome was certain, but the conclusion wasn’t the impetus. The progression was what thrilled this man. What spurred him on.

  How could she possibly assume such a thing about a complete stranger?

  Instinct. Something she’d learned to listen to a long time ago. And rarely was her intuition wrong.

  A mocking half-smile curving his mouth, he danced nimbly backward as the oaf lumbered toward him, sweating and swearing in profusion.
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  “Simply put, you rank-smelling clodpole with a brain the size of a radish, I have more expertise than you.” How can he jest at a time like this? “Something you should’ve considered when picking a victim to fleece.”

  Again, an image of a cat toying with a mouse sprang to mind. The ne’er-do-well’s trouncing bordered on cruelty, yet she couldn’t summon compassion for him.

  “We’ll see ’bout tha’, m’lord.” the robber huffed, gasping for breath and raising his arm as if to hurl the knife.

  Neither man noticed her as she crept along the edge of the buildings, hiding in the shadows. Biting her lower lip, she searched the lane again.

  Could no one hear the fight? Or was everyone too terrified to interfere? Perhaps this sort of ruckus was commonplace?

  If so, she’d have to rethink her opinion of London.

  The nobleman appeared unruffled and to have matters under control. He swung his sword, and with an admirable, skillful flick of his wrist, knocked the blade from his opponent’s hand.

  At that precise instant, another ruffian, this one wielding a club, emerged from an arched doorway, his intent clear.

  “Behind you, sir!” A shrill, panic-filled cry tore from Willow as she thrust her arm out, pointing to the dingy doorway. “Another man.”

  Beneath her breastbone, Willow’s heart pounded a terrified staccato.

  With impressive animal-like reflexes, the aristocrat spun around and veered to the side just in time to avoid the blow. He speared a hard glance her way for a fraction of a second before returning his attention to the two men advancing on him.

  Two against one. The measly cowards!

  Her blood simmered hot, and without thought to her own safety, she charged forward, brandishing her umbrella like a cudgel. She clobbered the disarmed beefy ruffian upside his wide head with a blow so robust, her umbrella broke with a sickening crunch

  “Wot the ’ell?” Clutching his skull, fury contorted his face. He staggered sideways, glaring at her. “You’ll pay fer tha’, you li’l’ slut.”