West End Earl by Bethany Bennett
Chapter Twenty-Five
After a night of tossing and turning, examining Lottie’s words from every angle, Cal finally came to a decision as dawn broke across the rooftops of London. With the resolution, he felt at peace for the first time in weeks. The solution had been simple, just as Lottie had said. Sometimes it took an outside perspective to help when one found himself stuck in a pit of his own making.
A handsome face was currency for his father, who’d always encouraged Cal to marry someone highborn, rich, and connected. Eastly himself had been using his looks to get what he wanted for his entire life.
Unfortunately, the marquess’s willingness to take advantage of those around him didn’t have a bottom. The more Cal gave, the more Eastly would take. It was simple math, and the sum would never be in Cal’s favor if he continued to do his father’s bidding.
At some point, there had to be an end to it all. He desperately hoped Phee would be at the center of that happiness, but even if she never forgave him, Cal had to try. One thing was certain: playing his father’s games would never lead to anything good.
After that bit of soul searching, he’d slept like the dead until Kingston woke him with coffee and a gentle reminder of the time. The coffee scalded his throat as he dressed in a hurry, bypassing his usual morning rituals.
Searching for a ribbon to tie back his hair, Cal opened the drawer in the table beside his bed. A piece of wood rolled forward and clunked against his knuckles.
Lifting it slowly, Cal caught his breath.
She’d left him the bird. Each feather was carved with exquisite detail, capturing the beauty of flight with wings outstretched. Before Lakeview, Phee had confessed that she’d carved a bird because she wanted to fly away.
And she had, hadn’t she? Phee had flown. She’d found a way to be free.
He was the one in a cage.
But no more. Cal brushed a finger over the polished wood, then placed it on the table.
He had an engagement to break and a life to reclaim.
At the Rosehurst home, Miss Violet Cuthbert sat on the same awful zebra-striped chaise where she’d been when he’d visited her the first time. Admittedly, she was pretty as a picture, reading the paper with her gown draping around her as she sat in a beam of sunlight streaming through the window. When the butler announced Cal, she jumped to her feet and met him in the middle of the room.
That was a far more eager greeting than he’d expected.
“Good morning, Miss Cuthbert. I wish I’d called under better circumstances, but I’m afraid I come bearing unpleasant news.” He grasped her fingers between them and looked her in the eye. “A gentleman never breaks an engagement, but I’ve discovered I’m less of a gentleman than I believed. You deserve a perfect match, and we both know I am not he—and you’re not mine. I’ve realized I am not willing to settle for less than happiness, and neither should you. I’m sorry, but I can’t and won’t marry you. Our fathers will have to find another solution to their wager.”
Miss Cuthbert shook her head, sending corkscrew curls swinging every which way. Cal’s stomach sank. Given how open they’d been about their lack of attachment, this was upsetting her far more than he’d expected. Perhaps she feared that Rosehurst would be impossible to deal with about this.
“Any way I can facilitate your happiness, I will. I’ll make introductions, get you invited to the highest functions. Whatever I can do.”
“You’re being so brave, presenting such a strong face. Milord, I’d never expect our engagement to go forward when your family has been dealt such horrible news. I read about it in the Times. I don’t know how you’re maintaining your composure after such a loss. I only knew him through you, and I’m overwhelmed by how tragic it is.” With that impassioned declaration, Miss Cuthbert’s eyes went glassy blue with tears.
She was nearly crying, and Cal had no idea what the devil she was talking about.
“You read about it in the Times?”
“Oh dear. You haven’t seen it?” With a flutter of hands and swirling skirts, she gathered the paper from the chaise and flipped pages until she found what she was looking for and thrust the newssheet at Cal. “Here. I wish they’d given him more print space, especially given his connection to a noble family.”
Deaths
Mr. Adam Hardwick, age 24, recently of London, died Monday of last week while on his wedding trip with his new bride, The Lady Emma Hardwick, at his side. His body was interred in the village of Warford, Northumberland, with services officiated by Rev. Charles Arcott. Mr. Hardwick leaves behind his loving wife to grieve his loss.
“They’d only just married,” Miss Cuthbert said in a broken whisper.
Cal’s knees were having a hard time supporting his body, so he let her guide him to sit on the ghastly zebra chaise. She sank beside him, patting his arm while he clutched the paper and read the words over and over.
Dead and buried. Gone. A tear slipped down his cheek and his nose went stuffy. Phee couldn’t be gone. Surely, the world wouldn’t be so cruel. Maybe it was silly, but Cal thought for sure that some part of him would sense it if Phee died. She’d taken so much of him with her, he’d have felt it if she’d simply ceased to exist.
Absolutely gutting. She couldn’t be gone.
Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.That was what she’d said.
Sanity and logic rushed in, drying his tears as he narrowed his eyes at the small print. If Phee had died and been buried already in Northumberland, there was no way in hell he’d find out by reading about it in someone else’s copy of the Times. Emma would have written or sent a messenger.
None of this made sense. Even knowing the words weren’t true, Cal couldn’t stop reading the notice over and over. He’d probably recite it in his sleep during nightmares for the rest of his life.
“It’s only natural to be so distressed,” Miss Cuthbert said soothingly. “He was your dear friend and brother by marriage. This must have been quite a shock.”
“Yes,” Cal parroted. “Quite a shock.” That would forever remain in his mind as the understatement of the century. Gathering his thoughts, Cal set the paper aside and covered Miss Cuthbert’s fingers where they rested on his forearm. “I don’t know when I will return to London, but I can provide written introductions to all the best hostesses. It’s not much, but I’d like to help you achieve your dream of a love match.”
Miss Cuthbert squeezed his fingers. “Lord Carlyle, through all of this engagement nonsense, you’ve been a friend to me. I don’t look forward to dealing with my father’s disappointment, but I think this may be an opportunity for an honest discussion about the match I want.” She shrugged. “Who knows? This might be what forces my father to listen to me about my future.”
He smiled. “I hope the baron hears you and understands. You deserve more than apathy from a spouse. I hate to leave you like this and am very sorry to go back on my word. But I hope you understand that I have to go.”
“Your sister needs you, Lord Carlyle. Go to her.” A residual tear broke free of her bottom lashes as she nodded, sending those curls flying about again, but she wiped it away with a bright smile.
Cal donned his hat. “Goodbye, Miss Cuthbert. I hope the next time we meet it will be during happier times.”
Out on the street, Cal swung up onto Murphy and nudged him toward home. Phee was on the other side of the country yet had still managed to save his hide today. She’d even sent a sign with her whittled bird, whether that had been her intention or not.
One interview done, one more to go before he would be free to fly away too. The charade of Adam’s death must be maintained during the visit with Eastly, but Cal would take that particular meeting in his own territory.
He brought Murphy around an apple seller’s cart, then dodged a small dog yipping at a boy with a red ball. The gelding was a solid mount, capable of finding the best path through a crowded street. A lucky thing, because with a mind full of travel plans, the upcoming meeting with Eastly, and the memory of that awful moment when he’d seen the death notice, Cal’s focus wasn’t on the street.
A groom took Murphy when Cal arrived at home. Cal glanced at his pocket watch, then climbed the steps to his door two at a time. Father would arrive in an hour. That left barely enough time to confer with Kingston regarding packing and tie up a few loose ends before they set out for the coast.
Endless days of travel loomed ahead, but at least he’d see Phee again. He had to believe that newspaper announcement was false. Anything else would be beyond imagining.
Perhaps by the time he reached Olread Cove, he would have some idea of what to say. Apologies seemed inadequate given the events that had taken place.
When the appointment with Eastly rolled around, Cal was ready to have an end to this disastrous bet and all future feelings of obligation.
Higgins announced his father’s arrival as Cal sat in the drawing room reading the death notice in the Times for the thousandth time. “Show him to the library. I’ll be there momentarily. After my father takes his leave, please tell Nelson I’d like to see him. Thank you.”
As a child, Cal had never seen his father working in the library. That had been a place for drinking with his cronies, not going over estate business. Eastly wouldn’t make the connection, because he wasn’t what one would call a deep thinker, but Cal wanted to end this in the library. Although not a bibliophile, he appreciated the room as his place of work. And he’d sacrificed sleep over this past week doing that work, right at that desk, attempting to figure out a solution to his father’s irresponsible behavior. It seemed fitting, then, that this would be where Cal delivered his verdict.
“Good morning, Father. Thank you for meeting me so early.” Well on noon now, but given Eastly’s puffy face and red eyes, he’d been out late. Not a surprise. Cal didn’t shake his hand or dispense niceties. With determined strides, he went to his desk and gathered the stack of ledgers. “You may take these with you when you go. I have all the information I need from them.” Cal handed off the books, then leaned against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. “Essentially, the paths for getting out of the situation you find yourself in are limited but not impossible.”
Eastly stared at the ledgers as if he’d never seen them before. “Where did you get these?”
“I took them from your desk last week. Now I’m returning them. Try to keep up, as I don’t have much time to devote to this today. Let’s discuss your options. As I see it, you can renegotiate the terms of the bet with Rosehurst. Perhaps refuse the horse and he will forgive the financial debt, then you both go on your merry way. That’s the best-case scenario. If Rosehurst insists on payment, you’ll need to sell the unentailed properties. With the loss of the Wilhelmina’s cargo, there isn’t a viable option for paying this debt without heavy liquidation on your part. Living with an allowance and practicing economies will allow the coffers to heal with time. If you like, I can manage your finances and investments, and with a little luck you’ll be comfortable sooner. However, I’ll only do that if you agree to a personal budget. The first time you exceed your allowance, I’m throwing the whole thing in your lap and walking away. If at any point the tenants suffer due to your ineptitude, I’ll wrest away full control of the estate’s finances, and if you don’t like it, you can take me to court.” An empty threat when Eastly would probably win that lawsuit, but a court proceeding would be messy. Disastrously scandalous to the family, because every last one of Eastly’s secrets would be published in the gossip rags when Cal tried to establish the marquess’s incompetency.
His father blinked, then donned his persuasion mask. “Now, Son, I don’t know why you went to all this trouble. Once you and Violet marry, this entire conversation is moot.”
“I’m not marrying Miss Cuthbert. I said that at Lakeview. You fail to realize that my marital status is not currency for you to spend. My eligibility as a bachelor is not something you can trade on. I’ve cleaned your messes for long enough. That ends now. I’ll help manage the finances of the estate, because there are people who depend on us for their livelihood—but only if you live within an allowance.”
“I’m a grown man, not some green lad. Allowance, indeed,” his father huffed.
Cal shrugged, a blessed emotional disconnect he’d never had before sliding into place. He had more important priorities now. In the end, Eastly would make his own decisions, and Cal would protect their tenants. With any luck, he and his father wouldn’t be at cross-purposes. “That’s entirely your choice. I can’t force you to see reason. Just like you can’t force me to marry Miss Cuthbert. My life is my own. I won’t be stepping in to save your hide anymore.”
His father stared at the stack of ledgers in his hands. “Sell everything?”
“The properties, yes. You aren’t to the point where you need to strip the house of furnishings. But if you expect to weather this, you must liquidate your assets and regroup. Now—” Cal clapped his hands once and straightened. “I must be going. You might have seen in the paper that Emma is now a widow. I’ll be leaving to go to her within the hour. While a latent thread of paternal love might inspire a desire to see her, I must insist you let me handle this initial time of grief. She will write when she’s ready for your visit. I may not see you for a time, so be well, Father. If you want to take me up on my offer of financial management, send a note around to Higgins, and he will get word to me. Good day.” They’d never been much for familial gestures of affection, so Cal squeezed his father’s shoulder as he walked by, then left his sire standing in the middle of the library.
“Son?” Eastly called when Cal reached the doorway.
“Yes, Father?” He turned.
“Are you quite serious?” Eastly appeared a bit mystified by the whole conversation, and Cal smiled with unexpected sympathy. It would be a shock to suddenly have to face consequences at such an advanced age.
“Quite serious. Get word to Higgins if you need me. But now I must go.” Whatever Eastly did was his decision. As he’d said, he was a grown man—and no longer Cal’s problem.
In the hall Cal met the butler. “I trust you to see him out when he’s ready. Could you send Nelson to the gold drawing room? And do you know if Kingston has finished packing?”
“Kingston is nearly finished, milord. I’ll send in Nelson.”
Once Cal determined that there was no news from Milton, he would be on his way. A tiny voice in his mind worried that the newspaper announcement might be true. He firmed his jaw and shook his head. Those doubts would cripple him if he considered them for too long. No, Phee would be fine. She was healthy, living in Olread Cove, and soon he’d see her and indulge them both in a thorough grovel.
He had a lady to win—and in the process, he would find out what on earth she was up to.