Engaging the Earl

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“That’s personal.” The words came out more snappish than she’d intended.

Mr. Fairfax frowned. “This isn’t a safe place for a gently bred lady to be.”

“I hardly think that would concern you at all.” Emma bristled at his tone.

Mr. Fairfax didn’t back down. “You need to think carefully about where you travel, especially at night.” Along with the I-know-better-than-you attitude came a strong note of disapproval.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Fairfax. I think I can manage without your pearls of wisdom—” A phrase she decided on instead of her first choice, which had been “overbearing dictates.”

His nostrils flared. “Had I not troubled myself this evening, you would have found yourself robbed … or worse,” he said ominously.

“So you say,” Emma said stubbornly. She didn’t want to concede the smallest point to her new adversary. “I never saw anyone behind me anyway.”

“I came to your assistance before he had a chance to accost you,” Mr. Fairfax argued.

The battle over who could be the most intractable continued until the carriage rumbled up to the Roths’ townhome. Emma made a move toward the coach’s door, but Mr. Fairfax was faster. Swinging the door open, he jumped down to the street and reached out his hand to help her descend.

“Thank you for your unnecessary assistance,” she grumbled, dropping her hold on his hand once both of her feet were on the ground.

“My pleasure.” He bit out the words.

When Emma began walking toward the back of the house, Mr. Fairfax followed her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, reaching around, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the shadows.

“Walking you to the door,” he said, as though he were a typical gentleman escorting a young lady home after a leisurely stroll.

Their situation was anything but typical.

“Are you mad? What if someone sees you?”

“Who do you expect to be awake at this time of night?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrow.

Emma didn’t bother mentioning that Lady Roth was undoubtedly waiting for her. “You can’t very well tell me you expect a band of ruffians or thieves to be hiding behind the bushes, waiting to accost me,” Emma said instead.

Mr. Fairfax obviously thought answering her wasn’t necessary, because he only held out his arm, indicating she should lead and he would follow. Throwing her hands up in disgust, she resumed her walk to the house and didn’t bother to look back to see if he was following.

But of course he was.

When they reached the servants’ entrance, Emma motioned for Mr. Fairfax to step back into the shadows. Surprisingly, he complied without comment, and she blew out a heavy breath of relief.

“I suppose I should thank you for the escort,” Emma said, hesitating on opening the back door.

“But you’re not going to?” Mr. Fairfax asked with a smirk. The shadows obscured most of his expression, including his injured eye. Emma briefly noticed the effect was actually quite dashing.

“Thank you,” she replied, working to push the errant observation out of her mind. Her words of gratitude sounded rather grudging, however. Very grudging.

“I’ll wait here until you’re inside,” he told her.

Emma didn’t argue. Even with only their brief acquaintance as a guide, she knew it would have been pointless. But she did steal one last look at the handsome man standing in the shadows before she pulled the door shut behind her and stepped into the darkened kitchen.

Back in the carriage, Marcus Fairfax, the Earl of Westin, relaxed with a sigh as the driver turned toward home. His evening had run on longer than he’d expected—and the conclusion of it had been rather more exciting than anticipated, too. He prodded gently at his injured eye and winced at the sting. The fiery little governess had gotten in quite a good blow. He wouldn’t be able to see his face in the glass without remembering her for a few days at least.

Not that he was likely to forget her anytime soon—injury or not.

In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had so thoroughly engaged his attention—despite the fact that many had tried to spark his interest over the years. Marcus’s title was old, his name was well respected and his fortune was considerable. Not to mention he still had his health, his wits and all of his teeth. Even half so many attributes would be enough to draw the notice of matchmaking mamas and their ambitious daughters. But none had caught and held his eye like the young woman who had seemed so very determined to escape his company.

He was still musing on the fire in her eyes when the carriage pulled up in front of his town house. Before Marcus could open the front door, however, someone pulled it open from the inside. The earl was mystified to find Gibbons standing on the other side. The butler looked remarkably alert, considering the late—or rather, early—hour.

“Gibbons?” Marcus asked, blinking in surprise. The servant actually doing his job during daylight hours was notable. This was flabbergasting.

His butler looked just as surprised to see him. The eye, Marcus supposed.

“Were you waylaid by a band of ruffians, my lord?” the older man asked.

“No, Gibbons.” Marcus sighed.

“Attacked by a throng of marriageable young misses?”

Closer to the truth, Marcus reasoned, but still, he shook his head in denial.

“Trip over your feet?”

“Leave it, Gibbons,” Marcus ground out. Gibbons was an old family retainer and, as such, had the liberating knowledge that his position was secure. However, for some reasons mystifying even to him, Marcus was too fond of his butler to dismiss him. Although the notion was occasionally tempting.

Gibbons quirked a smile but then sobered suddenly. “Though I’m curious to know who accosted you, we’ve no time for game-playing, my lord,” he said as though the persistent questions were somehow Marcus’s fault.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Marcus said, stepping into the house. His eyes—well, the one that wasn’t swollen shut, at least—were tired, and his tongue felt thick and unwieldy. He’d been up now for nearly twenty-four hours, and fatigue weighed heavily on him.

“I’m going to bed now, Gibbons,” Marcus said, pulling off his greatcoat and passing it to the butler.

“I think you might want to go to the blue salon instead,” Gibbons suggested.

“Has my bed been moved there?” Marcus quipped.

“I don’t believe you left explicit instructions for us to do so in your absence.”

“Then I can visit the blue salon tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to sleep.” Thinking was becoming a struggle. If Marcus didn’t move quickly, he might end up sleeping in Gibbons’s chair because he couldn’t make it any farther.

“Shall I tell your estate manager to rest while he awaits your leisure?”

Marcus stopped in his path to the stairs. He turned to face Gibbons, trying to ignore the knot forming in the pit of his stomach. But Gibbons wasn’t smiling, smirking or doing anything that suggested he was joking.

“Grimshaw is here?” he asked.

Gibbons nodded. “He arrived twenty minutes ago.”

What could his estate manager want? Marcus knew that whatever had happened, Grimshaw’s coming to see him in the middle of the night was an ill omen. Anxiety momentarily banished his fatigue, and the earl nearly sprinted to the salon.

“Grimshaw? What are you doing here?” Marcus asked as he entered the room. Any thought of exchanging pleasantries faded at the sight of his employee’s haggard expression.

“My lord,” the older man said, rising from the chair. He took a step forward as though to shake Lord Westin’s hand but then quickly stepped backward. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

Marcus could have corrected him, but he didn’t bother to. “I’m only surprised to find you here so early,” he said instead.

Grimshaw nodded. “Forgive me, my lord. I wouldn’t have intruded were it not of the utmost importance. But once I received the news, I left immediately for London.”

“What news?” Countless possibilities paraded through his mind, each one more dire than the one before.

“You made an investment with Lord Rutherford for some American timber,” Grimshaw said slowly.

Marcus nodded. He only vaguely remembered the investment itself—Grimshaw handled those details—but he did recall the estate manager mentioning it to him several months ago. The investment seemed sound, and Marcus had authorized the man to deal with it accordingly.

“What about it?” Marcus prompted when Grimshaw hesitated.

“The ship transporting the goods has been in a storm. We can’t say for certain, but I’ve received some information that the ship and the merchandise …” Grimshaw trailed off, obviously unable—or afraid—to say anything else.

“The ship and the merchandise, what?” Marcus pressed.

“Well … they might have … it’s not certain, you understand … really, we won’t know anything further until more information surfaces …” Yet Grimshaw still didn’t get to the crux of the matter.

“Grimshaw, it’s much too early in the morning to be playing guessing games.”

“The ship has most likely sunk,” the estate manager blurted.

Marcus thought through the ramifications for a few moments before he said anything.

“It’s certainly a tragedy if that’s the case, Grimshaw. But I’m more concerned about the crew and any other people who might have been aboard the ship. We can only pray that the reports are untrue.”

“But the merchandise, my lord?”

Marcus waved the concern away with a negligent slash of his hand. “Undoubtedly, it would be unfortunate. But it’s hardly worth traveling across the country before dawn. I appreciate your diligence in keeping me informed, but I don’t see that this is a matter of any urgency. Surely nothing can be done until the reports have been confirmed.” He made a move toward the door to call Gibbons to ready a room. “Stay here tonight and get some sleep before you return to Westin Park.”

“You don’t understand, my lord …”

Marcus sighed and paused in his trek. “I’m not pleased to have possibly lost the funds. But that is paltry in light of the other concerns if the ship has indeed sunk. That’s why I’ve never gambled much money in schemes. They all have the potential to fail.”

At this, Grimshaw lowered his gaze to the floor.

Marcus noticed the change in his demeanor. “What is it, Grimshaw?”

“You’ve trusted me for years with your estates and with your investments, have you not, my lord?”

Marcus nodded. Nothing about the shift in conversation inspired confidence in him.

Grimshaw nodded almost reflexively. But he still wouldn’t meet Marcus’s eyes. “And you’ve given me the liberty to handle the funding as I saw fit, for the most part.”

“Yes?” More a question than an answer.

“I might have funded the investment from the Americas with a larger than usual portion of your ready funds.”

The knot of worry in Marcus’s gut grew and twisted his insides until they felt like mush. “How much?” he managed.

“In hindsight, more than I should have,” Grimshaw hedged.

“What does that mean?”

“Bad news … if the ship has sunk … which of course we don’t know for sure …” Grimshaw added hastily.

Marcus didn’t want to ask this next question, but he had to. “If it has sunk, what does that mean?”

The time it took his estate manager to answer was grossly exaggerated by the fear gripping Marcus. “It means you’ve lost most of your fortune.”

Even though Marcus had been bracing himself, the news still hit him hard. He raised a hand to rub his weary eyes and flinched when he pressed on the growing bruise. It was almost laughable—earlier that evening, he had fancied himself a heroic rescuer, sweeping in to save the fair maiden.

But who was going to ride to his rescue?

Chapter Two

Across town, Emma Mercer found herself occupied with her own need for rescue. As expected, she’d entered the Roth residence to find herself summarily dismissed from her position. To make matters worse, Lady Roth had not even allowed her a night’s rest before setting her on the street, with her belongings already stowed in her valise by a maid. Notably missing among those belongings was any type of letter of reference.

Emma couldn’t return to her parents.

Yes, sooner or later, she’d have to tell them she had lost her position, but she couldn’t bear to wake them with that dreadful news so soon. Not until she devised a plan to find different employment and provide them with the income on which they depended.

That left her with only one place to go—Olivia’s house.

At Olivia’s, the butler, an imperturbable man by the name of Mathis, showed her immediately into the drawing room as though there was nothing unusual about a predawn visitor. Olivia joined her there minutes later, still in her nightclothes but with an alert and determined expression. One look—plus whatever information Mathis had given her—was apparently all it took for Olivia to understand exactly what had occurred.

“I never liked you working for that puffed up snob anyway,” Olivia, the Marchioness of Huntsford, announced as she entered the room, talking over Emma’s attempts to apologize for the early hour. “You are far too good for those terrors she calls children, and besides, she gave you scarcely any time at all to come by and visit me.”

“This isn’t exactly good news, Olivia.” Emma felt compelled to interject. Although her friend’s enthusiasm had a grudging smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Nonsense, this will be like a holiday, having you here—because, of course, you’ll be staying.” Olivia continued. “And none of your protests about it being extra trouble, or me being too kind. I’m being entirely selfish in looking forward to having you stay with me. Mathis will have a maid prepare you a room in no time at all, won’t you, Mathis?”

“Certainly, my lady,” the butler replied with such assurance that one might have supposed he always kept rooms at the ready for newly dismissed governesses.

“There, you see?” Olivia said as she seated herself on a sofa. “Now, while Mathis takes care of that, why don’t you sit down here with me and tell me all about it?”

Relief and gratitude poured over Emma in a wave as she all but collapsed onto the seat next to her friend. Soon, the whole story had come out—oversleeping at her parents’ house, rushing back to the Roths’, the confrontation with Lady Roth ending in her swift but final exit. The only thing Emma left out was her meeting the man—Mr. Fairfax. But surely she could be forgiven for glossing over that. It had, after all, been merely a chance encounter with a gentleman she’d likely never see again.

Olivia listened with her usual amount of patience—which was to say, none whatsoever—interrupting frequently with exclamations of surprise and outrage on her friend’s behalf. Emma was used to constantly having to bite her tongue around Lady Roth and the little terrors masquerading as children, and around her parents. Frankness was a sure way to offend the former and hurt the latter. Despite the bleakness of the situation, it was relaxing to finally say exactly what she thought without fear of the consequences. If Olivia were the type to be easily offended, they never would have become friends in the first place.

Granted, a marchioness and a governess were an odd pairing for a friendship. The origins of the friendship had been equally unique. During a walk through the park a few months earlier, David, one of the Roth children, had flung a handful of mud at his sister, Marie—only to have it miss and hit the unsuspecting Marquess of Huntsford as he and his wife were strolling. Emma had been suitably mortified, but the Huntsfords had been cheerful and gracious.

Since then, Olivia had been a stalwart friend. A stalwart friend who was now entirely too eager to find a silver lining in Emma’s situation.

“We just need to build the proper strategy,” Olivia continued.