West End Earl by Bethany Bennett

Chapter Nine

Adam’s sister? So Adam is real?”

“Yes, Adam’s sister.”

A footman in pale-blue livery opened the door and waited for them to disembark. Cal hadn’t even realized the carriage had stopped. Motioning for her to go first, he averted his eyes so he wouldn’t give in to the urge to stare at her pert bum in those snug breeches as she stepped down to the pavement.

Getting new personal information from her was like pulling teeth from a chicken, as his childhood cook would have said. That phrase had never felt more appropriate.

“I’m going to finish a few pieces of correspondence in the drawing room before I go home for the day,” she said.

When Cal handed his hat to Higgins, the butler said, “A young man by the name of Nelson Shaw arrived at the servants’ entrance. Cook got one look at him and insisted on feeding him. We have him in the kitchen until you’re ready to see him, milord.”

So the butcher’s son had decided to accept his offer of employment after all. “Put him in the library. I’ll be there in a moment. Thank you, Higgins.”

Exactly five minutes later, Cal made his entrance.

From the side, Nelson Shaw didn’t look like a ruffian. If anything, he resembled a scared kid whose mama had combed his hair, then spit on her thumb to wipe the dirt off his face. His clothes were freshly pressed but fit him poorly as he stood at attention in the middle of the room, as if afraid to move a muscle.

The anxiety evident in Nelson’s stiff posture and profile made Cal want to soften, but looks could be deceiving. Ophelia proved that. No matter how he appeared at the moment, Nelson had participated in the attack on her. Fresh anger brewed in his gut.

Had this nervous kid been the one to kick her ribs and stomach? Cal had seen the bruises himself, blossoming beneath the edge of the bandage around her torso. Had Nelson let her fall, watched her head smash against the cobblestones?

Maybe Nelson had kept some of her clothing for himself. With a critical eye, Cal examined what the young man wore. None of it looked familiar, which worked in the lad’s favor. One thing Cal knew was clothes—particularly her clothes, since once upon a time they’d been in his own wardrobe. But no, these garments would make his tailor wince, although Nelson had made an effort for the interview.

Cal closed the door behind him with more force than necessary, announcing his presence. He hadn’t thought it possible, but Nelson straightened further.

“We meet at last, Mr. Shaw. I’ve heard so much about you.” Cal took a seat behind his desk but refrained for the moment from waving Nelson to a chair. “Not all of it good.”

A ruddy blush stained Nelson’s cheeks, but he acknowledged the statement with a jerky nod.

“You are here today to discuss a position in my employ because of one reason, and one reason only. Even after your role in his attack, Mr. Hardwick vouched for you. He claims you’re redeemable. Are you?”

“What? I mean, pardon, milord?” Nelson gulped. Goodness, the young man’s voice cracked. For a moment, Cal felt sorry for him.

“Redeemable, young Nelson. Are you a good man who made a bad choice, or are you a thief taking advantage of Mr. Hardwick’s kindness?”

“I’d like to think I’m a good man. Or at least, I could be.”

Cal grunted and steepled his fingers under his chin. “We shall see, won’t we? My offer of employment comes with one condition.”

Hope lit Nelson’s features. “Yes, milord?”

“I expect loyalty from my staff. By extension, that implies loyalty to my friends and family. Those that enter this house are under my protection. That would include Mr. Hardwick. You see where the dilemma lies, do you not?”

Nelson shifted slightly and stared at his shoes.

“Yes, I think you do see. If I take you on staff and you steal from me, I will see you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. They hang thieves, you know.” A smooth chill wrapping around the words. Silence descended until Nelson cleared his throat and met Cal’s gaze.

“I won’t steal from you, milord.”

Meeting his gaze took stones—he’d give him that. “And Mr. Hardwick? What about him? You’ve already stolen from him. How do you propose to make that right?”

Nelson opened his mouth but shut it again. With a frown, he finally asked, “How can I, milord?”

It felt like a hunter catching prey in a trap, and when Cal smiled, he made sure to show teeth. “Information. In this position, you will have a smart uniform, ample food, and a salary that contributes to your family significantly. In exchange for wearing my colors, you will tell me everything you know about the crew from your neighborhood.” Cal eased out of his chair, rising to loom over his desk. Were he built like Ethan, intimidation would be easier. The broad and burly Scotsman would have this youngster pissing himself with one broody glower. “I want names. I want to know why you attacked my friend. Was it random or targeted? If targeted, you’ll tell me why and who ordered it.”

The intent turned out to be effective, even without Ethan’s size. Nelson shuffled back a half step, keeping a wary eye on Cal, but gave a terse nod. “Understood, milord. I won’t run with them no more. I won’t need to with this job.”

Cal moved around his desk to lean against the front, crossing his arms. “Don’t cut ties entirely. Not yet. You must walk a fine line for a while. Obviously, I expect you to refrain from criminal activity. But you’ll have to be close enough to hear and report to me if Mr. Hardwick becomes a target again. If you hear his name in any context, I expect a report.”

“You want me to be a turncoat.”

“I see we understand each other. As long as you and I are on the same side, you’ll find your time here valuable. And should you find that a position in service isn’t one you want to pursue long-term, I will write a reference for you in line with the man of character Mr. Hardwick believes you to be. Agreed?” Cal offered a hand, and after a brief hesitation, Nelson shook it.

“Agreed, milord.”

“Good, then you and I should sit for a chat. Afterwards, I’ll take you to Higgins. He will get your livery and assess where you’ll fit best in the house.” Waving his new double agent toward the fireplace, Cal took his customary chair.

Nelson paused in the air, hovering briefly over the seat.

“Second thoughts, lad?”

Nelson sat. “The crew,” he began. “If they find out I’ve betrayed them, things won’t go well for me or my family.”

It was a valid point and showed forethought. It also made him think of Ophelia a short time before, when she explained territorial street gangs with a flippant that’s London. He and young Nelson lived in very different versions of the same city.

“I have several properties across England, Scotland, and Wales. If you feel you or your family are in danger, please tell me. There are plenty of places to hide. Temporarily or permanently.” Softening his tone, Cal said, “You’re not making a deal with the devil. I understand I’m asking you to do something dangerous. My orders come from a deep desire to protect my friend. Your crew could have killed him.” His throat closed over the word killed, making his voice crack. “I need details if I’m to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

There must have been some measure of loyalty within Nelson, because the rigid line of his shoulders softened. “Understood, milord.”

“Good. Let’s have that talk, then, shall we?”

A half hour later Cal handed Nelson over to Higgins, then made his way upstairs to the portrait gallery, where he and Puppy fenced nearly every day. Not the use his forefathers had intended for the room, but certainly a more logical use of space than displaying paintings of dead people.

Lines of perfectly coiffed men and women looked down their noses from gilded frames. Their rows of golden perfection had intimidated him as a child, before he fully understood what a herd of degenerates they’d been. Sure, a few had been generally upstanding members of society. Or at least, their misdeeds hadn’t made it into the family lore. The male ancestors in particular had possessed the moral fortitude of meringue—pretty on the outside, utterly empty beneath the decorative finish.

Running a hand over the plain waistcoat he’d chosen for the day’s jaunt to the docks, Cal paused before the portrait of his mother. She fit right in with the others. Lovely. So utterly lovely. Maybe in the beginning, she’d been faithful. As the story went, his parents were a love match. Until they weren’t. The spectacle of his parents had been exhausting to watch as a child and humiliating to deal with as a young man. The clearest memories from his childhood were of standing at the window, watching as servants loaded his mother’s trunks onto a carriage again—sometimes only days after unpacking them amidst showering kisses and declarations of love for her family—and knowing no matter how obedient a boy he’d been, it wasn’t enough for her to stay. Or to take him with her.

“She was beautiful. You look like her,” Ophelia said from behind him.

Cal turned, oddly relieved to see her. “You’re still here? I thought you’d gone for the day.”

She shrugged a slim shoulder. “I got bored. Figured you might be too. Thought I’d stay and see if you’d indulge me in a match.”

“Feel the need to be trounced, do you?”

“You always say that, and I always win.” She grinned.

A bit of the tightness he’d been carrying in his chest unfurled with a laugh. Puppy, or rather, Ophelia, had a knack for doing that—making him laugh when he didn’t think he could.

“Today might be the day I send you home with your tail between your legs. You never know.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” She seemed relieved that he wasn’t going to press her for more details after she’d shared her name. What she didn’t realize was that over the course of the interview with Nelson, his priorities had shifted. Yes, he wanted to know her secrets. The why to all of this. But first, he had to find the words to warn this woman that despite her clever disguise, her uncle wanted her dead.

*  *  *

“Cal was right.” Her voice cut through the empty room, punctuating the mess the intruders had left behind. Somehow, Milton had found her amidst the masses of the city. That precious bubble of anonymity she’d constructed since leaving her uncle’s house over a decade before, by keeping her head down at school, then during her years in London—poof. Gone. Just like that.

And she’d been so close. A few more months, and she could reclaim her life. Reclaim her honesty.

The attack wasn’t random, Ophelia. Nelson claims an older man ordered it.Cal’s words earlier that evening weren’t ones she’d wanted to believe. The proof lay before her.

Phee scanned the room to make sure she was alone, then closed the door.

A man calling himself Smith paid cash. The gang’s spy followed him to a room at the Clarendon. Mr. Smith registered under the name Milton Keating.If Nelson spoke the truth—and how could he pull such a credible lie out of nothing?—Uncle Milton had somehow figured out where she lived. Not only that, but he’d visited the offices of Hapsburg Life and Property Insurance on three occasions during this trip to Town. It would appear Milton had taken out a life-insurance policy on Adam. With mere months before the birthday that would remove the family fortune from her uncle’s reach, he’d taken action to collect on his investment. It all came down to money.

Money. Phee charged toward the bed, with its bits of ticking and strips of blankets piled into a messy heap. “Please, please, please,” she breathed in a chant. There, pressed between the wall and the side of the bed, was the small pillow she cuddled close every night. Miraculously, the seams were intact. Wrapping her arms around it, she squeezed until a muted crinkle within the stuffing provided reassurance. They hadn’t found her nest egg. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes as she slumped onto the edge of the bed, clinging to the one thing that mattered within the chaos of the room.

How had he tracked her?

Nothing on paper tied her to this address. When she needed a bank, she traveled to the farthest corner of London from where she laid her head at night. The measly quarterly pittance from her parents’ estate was always paid out in person from a solicitor in Cheapside that she knew served Milton’s interests over hers. Fat lot of good those protective measures did her.

A piece of paper stuck to her boot, and she bent to pick it up. They’d even shredded John’s latest letter. At least it had been happy news—Vicar Arcott had rallied after her visit and grew stronger each day. She threw the bits of paper into the fireplace.

Phee carefully righted the broken footstool, its slashed cushion bleeding stuffing onto the floor. Cramming the bits of fluff into the gaping fabric hole might be a lost cause, but she tried for about fifteen seconds before setting it aside. Pieces of cotton and feathers drifted onto the toe of one boot, pale against black leather.

Cal had told her, but she hadn’t wanted to believe. Not while feeling vulnerable and exposed after sharing another piece of herself with him. After each revealed truth, they seemed to have a period when they scrambled to reclaim a sense of normality. Being in the pub today had been another piece of blessed routine—he hadn’t accompanied her lately, but he used to canvass the neighborhoods with her all the time. The light flirting in the hack on the way to Mayfair was certainly new, and she didn’t know what to do with it. But that was an issue for a different day.

Now this. Information showing the robbery wasn’t a random act of violence. Accepting it meant accepting that her charade was truly over, short of her goal. Yet to ignore the evidence of her destroyed room would require a level of self-delusion even she couldn’t muster.

She plucked two pieces of a torn waistcoat from the floor. They’d even stolen wooden buttons.

A gentle tap at her door made her sniff, then swipe at her eyes with the back of a hand.

“Mr. Hardwick?” Mrs. Carver’s voice came from the other side. The landlady’s tone said it all. Adam Hardwick was getting evicted.

Dread settled heavy in her limbs as she flipped the latch and opened the door, still clutching the pillow in her other fist.

Mrs. Carver’s face softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hardwick.” The landlady pulled a few coins from her apron pocket and held them out.

Phee nodded, knowing what came next.

“Here’s the rest of this week’s rent returned to you. You’re a good lad. I don’t know what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, but it’s not trouble I want on my doorstep. Gather your things. I’ll need you gone by nightfall.”

Phee squeezed out a breath and tightened her hold on the pillow. The faint crinkle soothed the panic tickling the edges of her brain. “I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Carver.”

She would be fine. No, this wasn’t ideal. But she was not without resources. She just needed to survive until the end of the year. Straightening her chin to stand as tall as possible, Phee closed the door and surveyed the room once more.

This time she’d go somewhere her uncle couldn’t reach her—perhaps to the seashore—and leave Adam’s name behind a little early. A plan formed from spinning thoughts while she sifted through the room in search of something salvageable.

The town would need to be within a reasonable distance from London, since she’d have to collect her quarterly allowance one more time. Perhaps she need only pretend to be Adam for that one meeting. The idea of finally shedding her brother’s name felt odd. Not quite the dark heft of grief, but not the lightness of relief either.

Under the bed, the corner of a miniature caught the light of the lantern. Beyond that, miraculously intact, lay the small sewing kit she used to alter her clothing. Smoothing dirt from the tiny painting’s frame, Phee studied the faces caught by a rather subpar artist. Her parents had been good people. So good, perhaps, that they hadn’t believed others capable of the depravity Uncle Milton held within his pinkie finger. Such blind trust to leave him with the final say in the amount of her allowance.

The whole situation made her blood boil, but being furious with her dead parents felt disloyal to the early memories she held of them. Guilt hit with predictable precision. She swallowed it down from habit, tucking it away as neatly as she pocketed the small portrait into her coat.

“So that’s it, then. A pillow, a sewing kit, and a miniature.” Pathetic, really. Everything else would be fuel for warmth or perhaps passed around as scraps to the other residents of the building. Maybe they could use the bits and pieces as patches for their clothes or a quilt. Some good might come of the mess that way.

The familiar faded wallpaper of the hallway greeted her for the last time when she stepped out of the room. Mrs. Carver took the key she proffered, then clasped Phee’s hands. “Be well, lad.”

“Thank you.” A thought occurred to her, cutting through the numbness she’d pulled around herself like a cloak. Her neighbor would receive another letter soon and not have any way of reading it. The thought cracked the calm she’d fabricated. “When you see Barry next, could you tell him I’m sorry I won’t be here to read his correspondence anymore? I hope he can find someone else to help him keep in touch with his brother.”

“I’ll tell him. Best get along before it gets dark, Mr. Hardwick.” The nudge was gentle, but there nonetheless.

Quick as that, she was homeless.

An hour later, if Higgins was surprised to see Phee on the doorstep, he didn’t let on. “Mr. Hardwick.”

“Hello again, Higgins. Is his lordship home?”

“I’m afraid Lord Carlyle and Lady Emma have stepped out for the evening.”

So this would not be a quick goodbye, then a walk to the nearest posting house. She could simply leave a note and move on with her life. But on this entire planet, there were three people who knew Ophelia was alive: Vicar Arcott, John, and Cal. Even if he didn’t know all the details. Walking away with no more than a letter sounded like an awful, cowardly way to leave things. He’d taken her under his wing and offered friendship when she’d been completely alone.

The fresh memory of her destroyed belongings, clearly meant as a threat to intimidate, flashed through her mind. Cal’s feelings weren’t more important than her safety. However, Cal owed her wages, and frankly, she needed every coin she could get if she was going to successfully move and hide for the next few months. Money provided a solid reason to say goodbye in person, when logically she should be fleeing the city and abandoning every connection and friendship.

“Do you mind if I wait in the library?”

Instead of answering, Higgins puckered his brow in a tiny gesture she might have missed were she not paying attention. The butler glanced at the pillow. “Perhaps you’d prefer to wait in a bedroom and address your business with him on the morrow? You know a chamber remains prepared for you at all times on Lord Carlyle’s order. The family likely won’t return until very late.”

God, if Higgins softened his voice further, Phee would cry. The unexpected kindness caused her eyes to burn with unshed emotion. “I look that bad off, do I?”

The butler straightened, all business once more. “I am hardly one to pass judgment, Mr. Hardwick. If you choose to wait in the library, you are free to do so. I’m simply doing my duty by reminding you that Lord Carlyle has made it clear you will always have a place here.”

Blinking to clear her eyes, Phee adjusted the pillow under her arm. “Thank you, Higgins. If you wouldn’t mind sending notice when his lordship arrives home, I’ll take that offer of a room.”

“Of course.”

A footman led her up the stairs and down a familiar hallway. “Are you sure we’re going the right way? Isn’t this the family wing?” They passed the heavy wooden door to Cal’s room, then stopped at the end of the hall before a set of similar doors.

“No mistake, Mr. Hardwick.” The servant opened the room to show a chamber three times the size of the room she’d been renting, with a door ajar on the far wall showing an additional dressing chamber.

Typical Cal. Generous to the point of excess, providing a soft place to land after a day of emotional turns and surprises. Standing in this lush chamber, with its carved wood mantel and grand bed piled with luxurious linens, it hit her that for the moment at least, she was safe.

Her knees went soft until a chair caught her. Wrapping her arms around the pillow and hugging it to her chest tighter, Phee leaned her head back.

It hadn’t been the worst day of her life. But the bar for that was rather high.

Phee swallowed around a hiccuping sob and squeezed her eyes closed. God, she’d been so close to her goal, and now this. Starting over from scratch again. Goodbyes. Death threats.

Rubbing a fist over her eyes, she scrubbed away tears. There would be time to cry later. After Cal returned from yet another night of socializing with all the other glittering, pretty people. After she left him behind. And she’d certainly cry once she’d climbed aboard the mail coach and “Adam” disappeared from London.

What she’d give to find out how large the insurance policy was. How much was she worth to Milton? Before today, she’d have used the pennies allotted for her allowance as a metric. Clearly, she was worth more dead than alive.

A tear escaped, so she wicked her cheek dry on the shoulder of her coat.

Later. There would be time to cry later.