West End Earl by Bethany Bennett

Chapter Four

It was official. Calvin wanted to throw Roxbury into the Thames just so he could enjoy his coffee and toast in peace.

Cal had called on the bounder four different times and each time had been told at the door that he wasn’t home. He’d looked for him at the club but come up empty. Roxbury always seemed to show up and call on Emma when Cal was out of the house, so he’d managed to take Emma for a drive several times over the last few weeks. When Cal instructed the servants to turn the man away, Emma bumped into Roxbury while out shopping, or at the museum with her Saint Albans friends. There was no escaping it—Cal was being outmaneuvered.

With such focused attention from Roxbury, everyone suspected an offer would be imminent.

Like hell. If there were even the slightest chance the man’s intentions toward Emma were honorable, Cal might wish them happy. But he’d bet the pot of Cook’s delicious strawberry jam in his hand that Roxbury was only toying with Emma. Entirely unacceptable.

The talk had to happen today. Even if he needed to run the man to ground like a fox, Cal would finally have a one-on-one discussion with the reprobate. Then perhaps he wouldn’t have to sit at breakfast enduring yet another monologue on Roxbury’s charms.

Reaching the end of his patience, Cal threw his serviette onto the table and grabbed his cup. “Excuse me.”

Coffee in hand, he marched down the hall, past the library, and through the front doors and kept walking across a narrow lane to the residence of his best friend Ethan and his wife, Lottie. Dawson, their butler, would be horrified if he simply went inside, so Cal knocked, then took a sip of his steaming coffee while he waited. The street wasn’t too busy yet, but a man pushing a cart of wooden crates gave Cal a questioning look as he walked by.

Because of the exceptionally long term of Parliament, the newlyweds had spent more time in Town this year. Typically, Lord and Lady Amesbury preferred the country, doing whatever country dwellers did. Something to do with sheep and hops—that was what he’d say if Ethan asked him to explain the workings of their estate. Cal knew damn well Woodrest crafted delicious ale and would eventually sell to the finest houses in London.

Building a production and retail endeavor from the ground up with Ethan had been a unique challenge. Their efforts were looking to pay off nicely as long as this year’s crop yielded the projected harvest. Not that Cal ever willingly or enthusiastically discussed such things. Ethan and Lottie could go on and on about crop rotation and not even notice that Cal was on the verge of dying of boredom. That was why he handled the business side of things—because playing in the dirt sounded awful.

Cal took another sip. Dawson’s knees must hurt today. That would explain the wait.

Another moment passed before Dawson opened the door and stepped aside. The butler was as ancient as Methuselah, with jowls that hung from his face as if exhausted from years of clinging to the sharp edges of his facial structure. “My lord and lady are in the breakfast room,” he said.

“Thank you, Dawson.”

A floral arrangement on the slim table by the door caught his eye. Little touches like that told everyone that this home belonged to a lady who cared about the details. Without Lottie, Ethan would have been content to let the place exist as a vast echoing marble chamber with a random distribution of half-read books piled on every available surface.

The smell of breakfast led Cal to the sunny room where the pair preferred to start the day. Pushing through the wooden door, he immediately felt better. No one here would rhapsodize about damned Roxbury’s shoulders.

“Good morning,” he said.

Lady Amesbury gave him a wave, and Ethan jerked his head toward the sideboard, where platters of breakfast options lay, making a silent offer.

Moments like this reminded him that his family was pretty brilliant. They didn’t share blood, but they would do anything for each other.

Cal loaded a plate with all his favorites and topped off his coffee. He might be a disgrace as an Englishman, preferring coffee over tea—and Ethan assured him regularly of this—but they always had coffee on hand for Cal during breakfast. Sometimes he smelled coffee on Dawson’s breath, so he was fairly certain he wasn’t the only one who appreciated the black nectar of life.

“Are the Lords not meeting today?” Cal asked.

Ethan took his role in the House of Lords seriously, although he wasn’t as politically active as some. Calvin assumed his seat in the House only when he had nothing better to do. Which admittedly wasn’t often.

“I’m not going tae sit through whatever Whitfield is goin’ on about today. Besides, I was, er, detained longer than expected before breakfast.” Ethan grinned and Lottie smirked, obviously proud of herself. “Did you have a particular reason for stoppin’ by, or are you just here tae eat my sausage and kippers?”

“Your bacon, actually. I’ll leave your sausage for your wife to enjoy.” Grinning at the choked laughter from Lottie, Cal sat across from them and swallowed a hearty bite before continuing. “I need to talk about my sister, otherwise I may not survive her Season. Or she may not survive. Lord Roxbury might not make it out either. Regardless, one of us will have to go. I’m going to hunt him down this afternoon and finally talk to the man. He’s raising expectations, and anyone with a brain knows Roxbury isn’t the marrying kind.” Maybe Emma liked a challenge.

Fine, he might be indulging in a bit of dramatics. Thankfully, his companions didn’t comment on that. Lottie bit her lip as she smeared strawberry preserves on a piece of toast. Ethan shook his head and grinned over at his wife, then leaned back in his chair. “The papers called her an Incomparable. A diamond, even. The lass has her pick of anyone. What could possibly be the matter?”

God, their bacon really was amazing. Amidst his general annoyance with life at the moment, the salty perfection stood out as a bright spot. “My cook needs to talk to your cook and discuss this bacon. It has to be something in the curing process they do differently. As to Emma—she could choose anyone. So why the bloody hell is she so focused on Roxbury?”

Lottie grimaced in sympathy. “Some women are drawn in by pretty charmers.”

“Can’t she see beyond the face? He’s a handsome fellow, I’ll grant you that. But there has to be more to a man than appealing shoulders.”

Cal tried not to roll his eyes when Lottie stared at Ethan’s impressively wide shoulders and her expression evolved into a heated look more appropriate for their bedroom.

The two of them were adorable in their own twisted way. As sentimental as it sounded, Cal supposed love made all the difference. His parents hadn’t exhibited the concept of love—not with each other at any rate. If he could find what Ethan shared with Lottie, he might consider the institution of marriage.

Preening like a peacock, Ethan winked at his wife before returning to the topic at hand. “Will you think anyone is good enough for Emma?”

“I offered Puppy two hundred pounds to marry her and keep his hands to himself. But his morals are too firmly entrenched, I fear. He laughed at me, then drank my liquor and left.”

The couple snickered. Lottie said, “I like Adam. He’s young, but he has kind eyes.”

Pushing the now-empty plate aside, Cal cradled the coffee cup between his hands and tried to relax his shoulders from where they’d crept up near his ears. “Young, but he’s a solid fellow. We’re taking Emma to Vauxhall tonight, if you’d like to come along.”

The couple exchanged a look, then Lottie nodded. “Let’s dine here first. Their portions are appallingly small.”

Ethan sighed. “Aye. Elf food and fireworks, it is.”

“Perfect.” Cal refilled his cup from the silver carafe and rose. “With that to look forward to, I’m afraid I need to go. My schedule is full. I’m due at the tailor’s in a bit, but first I have to deal with Roxbury. Which is sure to be a fun time. On top of that, Father requested I call. Let’s all hope he hasn’t spawned another illegitimate child.”

*  *  *

A short drive later, the butler at the club informed him that Lord Roxbury had left for home after gaming all night.

Cal’s carriage pulled up three doors down from Roxbury’s tidy residence. He called up to his coachman, “Hobby, have someone check the mews behind the house. Make sure his lordship is home.”

Ten minutes later the young tiger, Walter, returned, slightly out of breath. “He arrived about a quarter hour ago, your lordship.”

“Very good. Circle the square. I won’t be long.”

Cal whistled a cheerful tune as he made his way down the pavement and climbed the steps to the town house. The butler answered his knock but didn’t bother glancing at Cal’s card this time before stating that Lord Roxbury wasn’t at home.

Donning his most charming smile, Cal tipped his hat brim at a rakish angle with one finger. “Then you won’t mind if I wait inside. Roxbury is expecting me,” he lied.

“I’m afraid, milord, that won’t be poss—”

Cal missed the rest as he brushed past the butler and strode up the staircase to where he assumed the family rooms were. Behind him, the retainer gawked, and Cal waved a hand over his shoulder. “I’ll tell him I overpowered you. This will only take a moment.”

A maid in the hallway on the second floor pointed the way to the master’s rooms. Cal gave a cursory knock on the door, then walked in.

“Your butler is sputtering in the front hall, cursing my name, and will probably send a burly footman to drag me away posthaste, so let’s make this quick, shall we?” Cal kicked the door closed behind him, then turned the key in the lock to buy him a few extra minutes in case his prediction wasn’t far off.

“What the devil do you want, Carlyle?” Roxbury’s jaw was rough with late-night bristles, his eyes were red-rimmed, and a pungent wave of alcohol and perfume—thankfully, not Emma’s preferred scent—wafted across the room when he spoke.

Wincing, Cal said, “You look like hell, man.”

Roxbury shrugged. “I’ll be right as rain once I sleep. I repeat, what do you want?”

“I need to know your intentions regarding my sister.”

The other man chuckled, which turned into a full-on guffaw while he shrugged out of his evening coat. “Did she put you up to this? Damn, dance with a chit a few times and they hear wedding bells.”

A glassy calm settled over Cal, not unlike the smooth surface of a peaceful loch hiding a sea serpent in its depths. “My sister’s emotions aren’t a laughing matter. But I fear you’re toying with them, and that is not something I will stand for.”

“Emma doesn’t have any such reservations. In fact, she’s been most…eager to get to know me.” Roxbury smirked as he unwound his limp cravat and dropped it on the floor, then started on his waistcoat buttons.

At the implication, Cal’s hands clenched, but nothing would be solved if he blackened the man’s eye. Although it would be bloody satisfying.

“You won’t speak of Emma that way. Not now, not ever. Are we clear? You obviously don’t have honorable intentions, so your involvement with her ends now. No more rides in the park. No more dances. If she approaches you, you’ll greet her civilly, then walk away.” Such treatment would break her heart in the short term but save her future pain. It would be agonizing to witness, but Cal couldn’t stand idly by while she wasted her debut Season on a scoundrel like the sot before him.

“You want me gone?” Roxbury’s waistcoat joined the pile of clothing on the floor, and for a moment, Cal pitied the man’s valet. Cal’s manservant, Kingston, would make his life hell if Cal dared disrespect his clothing like that. In his shirtsleeves, Roxbury sauntered toward him.

“She deserves better than you. If you’re not planning to marry her, then you need to leave her alone.”

Roxbury seemed to consider that, but his smirk didn’t bode well for the conversation. “Two thousand pounds.”

Cal cocked his head. “I beg your pardon. You expect me to pay you to do the right thing? We are talking about protecting a young lady from a good family. The daughter of a marquess.”

Roxbury untucked his shirt from his trousers. “You want me to leave your precious sister alone? Two thousand pounds. For that, I’ll abandon the field to a suitably pasty fellow of your choosing.”

Crossing his arms to appear casual as he leaned against the door, Cal weighed his options. Roxbury had no honorable intentions toward Emma, and likely no honor in general. If paying him off was the quickest way to end the situation, then so be it. The whole business turned his stomach, but in the end, this was similar to paying a spurned and dissatisfied mistress, or a pregnant maid—and God knew he’d done that for Eastly enough times. “For two thousand pounds you’ll agree to stop your pursuit of Emma?”

“Quibble about it, and the price goes up,” Roxbury said. “Besides, it’s not as if passing around that Carlyle fortune is new for you. How many women have you paid to keep quiet after your father’s done with them? This is no different, really. But I didn’t have to see the marquess’s mini member to get my lump sum. Two thousand, delivered today. Or I’ll take a check.”

A knock at the door behind his shoulder made Cal glance at the lock. The cavalry had arrived.

“I’ll write a check now and have it done with. Call off your dogs while I use your inkwell.” A small desk against the wall held a messy pile of papers, four empty wine bottles, and an inkpot and pen. The quill nub could have used a good sharpening with a penknife, but it wasn’t Cal’s job to maintain this man’s writing tools. Shaking his head at the clutter and disarray, Cal pulled his checks from his pocket and scratched out the information required to draft such a large sum.

At the door, a bare-chested Roxbury told whoever was in the hall, “He’s here to pay a debt. You can escort him out in a moment.”

Signing his name with sharp strokes, Cal curled his lip. “There. Don’t smudge the ink, for I won’t be writing you another.” He handed the paper to Roxbury on his way out the door.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” the bastard said, then closed the door.

The footman looked more like a boxer, with the kind of nose that had clearly been broken more than once and a brow so bisected by scars, the hair had given up any attempt to grow. With a jerk of his head, the servant motioned for Cal to walk ahead, escorting him from the home in threatening silence.

But it was done. Emma was safe from one of London’s many scoundrels. Thousands more to be on the lookout for, but that was a problem for another day.

There was only one way to salvage the morning—a visit to Bond Street.

A half hour later, Cal tugged the bottom of his new waistcoat down so it fell exactly where breeches met shirt, then turned in the mirror to inspect the seamlines. Perfectly straight without a pucker or unwanted wrinkle in sight.

“Well done, Carter. Beautiful fit as always.”

“Thank you, milord. It’s always a pleasure to dress someone of your refined tastes.”

Cal shot him an amused look. “Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think? You’re just relieved it’s not a pair of trousers so I can’t make my usual dangling-cock jokes.”

Carter, predictably, bit his lip against a smile in an effort to keep his professional demeanor. It had become a sort of game between them, with Cal free to be as outrageous as he pleased, and Carter trying his damnedest to keep a straight face.

On top of that, the man really was an exceptional tailor.

“Now the coat, milord?”

The dark-green wool settled over his shoulders like a hug. “That will do nicely. You were right about the onyx buttons. They highlight the fine weave of the fabric without distracting from the lines.”

“I’m pleased you are satisfied with it, milord. If there won’t be anything else today, shall I wrap these and give them to your footman?”

“Yes, thank you.”

There was a pregnant pause as Carter helped him out of the coat, then handed it off to an assistant. “As always, we are honored to receive the continued patronage of the Carlyle and Eastly houses.”

Cal glanced over as he shrugged into his original waistcoat and fastened the buttons. “Has Eastly been in recently?”

“Last week, milord.”

“All right, then I’ll settle his account before I leave.” Otherwise, his father would live on credit until doors shut in his face all along Bond Street.

Carter nodded. “Very good, milord.” He cleared his throat gently. “I believe your father also visited the glovemaker two doors down as well.”

Of course he did. Cal smiled ruefully. “Then I shall stop by there next. Thank you, Carter.”

As predicted, the glovemaker was relieved to have Eastly’s account settled. A pair of leather gloves for Puppy and a delicately beaded pair for Emma helped reaffirm goodwill with the shop.

Sometimes he wondered if it would be easier if the shops simply sent the bills directly to him. Giving Father pin money made more sense from a financial perspective, except for the tantrum Father would no doubt throw.

On the street, Cal climbed into his carriage and tossed the two slim glove boxes onto the empty seat across from him.

He sighed and relished the quiet of the few minutes it took to get to his father’s town house. Just another day in the life of Lord Calvin Carlyle, caretaker of the Eastly family. Once he dealt with his father, he’d be free to anticipate Emma’s first trip to Vauxhall. She’d love the fireworks, and he could hardly wait to see her excitement at the acrobats.

That was something to look forward to. The morning might have been a trial, but at least the day would end well.

Or so he thought, until he found out why his father had asked him to drop by.

“At any point in this horrifically misguided thought process, did it occur to you that human beings are not currency? This isn’t a tailor bill or a new pair of boots. This is too far, even for you.” Cal scrubbed his palms over his face and wished he had ignored Eastly’s summons.

The marquess appeared discomfited for the first time in recent memory, avoiding Cal’s gaze to fiddle with a crystal paperweight on the desk in his rarely used library. “Well, you see, it’s like this, Son.”

Cal sighed. When the marquess started calling him Son, it always spelled disaster.

“Everything will be fine once my investment in the Wilhelmina pays out. The debt is rather sizable,” his father said.

“Rather sizable? Or crippling?”

“It’ll ruin us, Son.”

“No, it will ruin you.”

“I don’t know if the estates can recover from this,” Eastly said.

Cal took a moment to process those words and still couldn’t quite make his brain accept them as real. The estates were healthy. Sizable. Sure, he paid Eastly’s Bond Street accounts—but because his father was irresponsible, not broke. Cal bit out words through gritted teeth. “What was it? Cards? Horses?”

“Lady Winslow,” his father muttered.

“I’m sorry—Lady Winslow?”

The marquess took a deep breath as if preparing to tell a tale, and something told Cal that was exactly what this would be. A story for the record books of ridiculous wagers. Depending on how utterly preposterous it turned out to be, it might even be true. But he hoped this one time, his father would be honest and have the grace to feel ashamed of himself.

“Lady Winslow tends to be…well, let’s say, not so loose with her favors,” his father began.

“You mean she’s faithful to her husband.”

“Yes. Odd duck, that. Baron Rosehurst and I bet about who could get under her skirts first.”

“And you lost.” Did that mean the baron overcame the lady’s determination to stay faithful to her husband? Curiosity won out over the anger long enough for Cal to ask, “How did Rosehurst manage that?”

“We set a time limit. Neither of us won the lady, so we each owe a forfeit.”

Ah, there was the utter lack of forethought or logic he’d come to expect from his father. At some point Father’s scandals had turned from opera dancers and mistresses to blatant recklessness, and Cal had failed to notice. Or perhaps he’d become numb to it all, and the escalation of consequences had sneaked up on him. “So, you were so confident in your ability to woo a lady—who by all appearances actually loves her husband—that you put a time limit on this bet, with a default that will cripple our estate’s ability to function.”

“Unless you marry the chit, yes. But in all fairness, the baron defaulted too.”

“Please tell me the baron’s default is some kind of boon to this situation.”

For the first time in the conversation his father’s face took on the animated excitement of a little boy receiving a present. “Mason’s Square. The prize stud from his stables. Gorgeous, leggy bay. His offspring will bring a tidy sum.”

Cal’s fists clenched so tightly his fingernails cut his palms. “A horse. A woman and a horse. You thought a horse equal to a default that threatens the financial security of our entire family? You literally traded your own son’s future for a horse.”

“He’s a beautiful horse,” his father said sheepishly.

“Forget the fact that we don’t have a horse-breeding operation—let me get these details straight.” Cal cleared his throat, hoping in vain to extinguish the fury threatening to close his airway. “Either I have to marry his daughter, or we pay a monetary default that will drain the coffers. In exchange for my freedom, you gain one single blasted horse.”

“A prize-winning stallion,” his father interjected.

Cal wouldn’t honor that with an answer.

“Very generous of Rosehurst,” his father said, bobbing his head as if he could somehow nod hard enough and with enough enthusiasm that he might sway Cal through sheer force of will. Classic Marquess of Eastly.

“And if I don’t marry her, we’re ruined,” Cal growled.

“Unless the Wilhelmina shows up soon, yes.”

“Why don’t you marry her?” Cal shook his head with disgust. “A marquess is a better title than an earl. Or renege on the bet. You wouldn’t be the first gentleman to do so.”

“I can’t go back on my word. A gentleman’s word is sacred.” Eastly placed a hand over his heart as he made that entirely hypocritical declaration. “Rosehurst thought she’d fancy you more, since you’re closer to her age. Just wants the best for his daughter, after all.”

The first instinct battling for action demanded Cal punch his father in the nose, march out of the house, then have a stiff drink or five while repeating his determination to never speak of his sire again.

To the marquess, the title was God-given destiny, and since he hadn’t done anything to earn it, he didn’t see any reason why he should exert effort to safeguard it. But what Eastly never seemed to grasp was that this was about more than the title. Their homes and tenants were full of people who depended on them. If Cal simply refused, the estate and those families who relied on them would feel the impact.

Not only that, but Emma’s marriage prospects, and eventually Cal’s own, reflected Eastly’s rank in society. Containing his father’s scandals—and now paying off an inappropriate suitor of Emma’s—had always been more about protecting their futures than Eastly’s personal reputation.

What a mess.

“I’ll have them announce the banns.” His father rose from behind the desk and had the audacity to clap a hand on Cal’s shoulder as if they were partners in this ridiculousness.

“Don’t you dare,” Cal said, plopping his hat on his head while his brain whirred, searching for a way out of this.

“Sorry, what did you say, Son?”

“Tell the baron you’ll settle the debt when the Wilhelmina returns with your investment. That will buy me some time to find a way out of this coil. I’m not making a decision right now.”

“There’s no decision. You have to do this. You can’t ruin me, Calvin.”

“And yet you think nothing of ruining me.” With that, Cal stormed out, slamming the library door behind him. He climbed into the carriage, his chest tight with an acrid mix of worry, frustration, and red-hot fury.

The city passed by. Buildings with dirty doors on packed streets, only blocks from gleaming townhomes with tidy gardens surrounded by ornate ironwork fences, like elaborate cages of their own making. Thousands of those people would think he lived a blessed life. Bet they didn’t have family members who traded their sons like livestock. Hell, he’d been traded for livestock. Granted, matches in the ton happened all the time for reasons that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with finances, connections, and politics. Yet the marquess hadn’t even pretended there might be some higher noble purpose at work.

Just a horse. What a mess, indeed.