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The Earl's Secret
“Are you well, Miss Fairchild?”
Her lack of control brought him closer and Anna found herself tugged into the shadows where he stood. He leaned his head down, and for a moment she thought he might try to kiss her.
She hoped.
She prayed.
She tried to clear her mind of whatever bewitching spell he was placing on her.
“If you are to swoon, Miss Fairchild, let it be over something pleasant like this, and not over that boring old Lord Treybourne.”
She began to laugh, but his kiss covered the sound of it. He touched his lips to hers softly at first and then with a bit more persistence. He tasted of something mint. Then, as quickly as he had begun, Mr. David Archer stepped away.
Anna could form no words to speak after that experience. She was fully aware that his behavior had been too forward and that she should reprimand him. The problem was that in her heart of hearts she would welcome his mouth on hers again.
And again.
The Earl’s Secret
Harlequin® Historical #831
Praise for Terri Brisbin
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“[Brisbin’s] bold, vivid writing beautifully captures the flavor of medieval castle life and the intrigue-rich Plantagenet court. Passionate and romantic, The King’s Mistress is a rare delight.”
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The Earl’s Secret
Terri Brisbin
Available from Harlequin® Historical and TERRI BRISBIN
The Dumont Bride #634
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The Duchess’s Next Husband #751
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The Earl’s Secret #831
The idea for this story came about while I was listening to a panel of librarians at a Romance Writers of America conference in Denver a few years ago. They painted such a vivid picture of the early history of book reviews that I thought—hmmm, there’s a story here. Not long after that, while watching some old romantic comedies that involved secret identities, hidden agendas and love, I began to plan out that story.
My thanks to John Charles, Shelley Mosely and Kristin Ramsdell for their inspiration for this story and for their ongoing support of the romance genre and its authors.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Chapter One
London, England
“Bloody hell!”
The piles of papers from his various business interests that lay on his mahogany desk scattered across the surface and onto the floor as he tossed down the latest copy of the Scottish Monthly Gazette. An uncommon anger built within him and he could not resist picking the rag back up for just one more glance. Surely, he had misread the editorial. Surely, the writer had not used his name. Surely not.
Yet, upon examination, David Lansdale saw that his ire was in part well-deserved, for there on the second page, as part of the Gazette’s editorial essay, was not only his title, Earl of Treybourne, but also spurious remarks against the arguments made in his own essay the month before in the respectable Whiteleaf’s Review.
“My lord?”
David looked up to see his butler at the door of his study.
“I did not want to be disturbed, Berkley.”
“I understand, my lord,” Berkley replied with a deferential bow, “but Lord Ellerton has come calling and shows no signs of being deterred in speaking to you.”
He has most likely seen this, he said under his breath as he glanced at the newest issue of the Gazette. And, no matter how much his friend tried to offer commiseration, it always sounded like gloating.
“Then you must be a stronger deterrent, Berkley. I do not wish visitors at this time.” Allowing his displeasure to show, he reiterated, “No visitors.”
Berkley, the consummate butler, approached the mess of papers David had made of his desk and the surrounding area of floor, and bent to pick them up.
“Leave them, Berkley. It is more important that you keep everyone out….”
With a nod, Berkley left and quiet descended for a few moments as David gathered the strewn papers and put them on the desk. David turned his attention to the confusion of paperwork and began sorting it back into the neat piles it’d been in just moments ago. Lord Anthony Ellerton would be more pest than pestilence, but his company was simply not welcome at this moment. David would apologize later for the brush-off, later when he had handled this mess.
And after he prepared to face his father’s wrath over this attack.
His stomach gripped as he thought about his father’s reaction. The Marquess of Dursby was a dour, humorless man at best. He could only hope the marquess was in better spirits when he opened the copy. Or that he avoided reading the Whig-supporting publication completely. Now that was a thought. If his father kept to his regular Thursday schedule, he would most likely skip dinner at his club for a quiet night at home.
David sat down at his desk and placed the object of his displeasure in the drawer so he did not have to face it straight on. At least not until he had a plan to answer the questions and comments in A. J. Goodfellow’s newest essay. He leaned over and held his head in his hands, knowing it was much too early in the morning for such a disastrous feeling.
The sounds of another arrival stopped him before he could wallow much longer. Heels clicking across the wood of the entryway coming closer to his study’s door grabbed his attention. That kind of fuss, the kind of attention his staff was giving to whomever approached his door, could mean only one thing and it was not that Ellerton had successfully pressed his case for admission. David prayed in the moment before the door opened.
His prayer was not answered.
“The Marquess of Dursby,” Berkley called out as he stepped aside and allowed David’s father to enter. With a bow, he pulled the door closed and a sense of impending doom spread through the room.
“Father,” he said, standing at once and bowing. “I am surprised to see you this early in the day.”
His father simply nodded, not deigning to answer the question implicit in his greeting. The door closed quietly; Berkley at his post.
“Would you care for something to eat or drink, sir?”
“I do not waste my time on such things when the fate of the nation is on the line.”
“I would not say it is as grim as that, sir.”
“And that, Treybourne, is most of your problem. The responsibility granted to you—”
“Forced on me, rather,” David interrupted. In private he could admit that being the spokesman for the Tory party’s position in this war of words had not been his choice.
He looked at the man who fathered him and marveled that in spite of their close resemblance in appearance—same brown hair cut shorter than current style would dictate, same chiseled angles in their faces, same pale blue eyes ringed in midnight blue—their personalities and approach to honor and family were completely different. And when serving as the target of his father’s attempts to intimidate, he thanked the heavens above for the differences.
“A nobleman honors his word.” The words were more demand than statement, more insult than declaration. The Marquess of Dursby did not look lightly on shirking one’s duties, especially when the family honor was involved.
“And I will carry out what I have agreed to do, sir.”
David clenched his jaw and waited for his father’s displeasure to be demonstrated. Never a man to waste time, the marquess seized the topic.
“You should have seen this rebuttal coming, Treybourne. Anyone with a modicum of education or experience in the oratory and debating arts would have known.”
Crossing his arms, David stared off into the corner of his study while his father continued in his well-controlled diatribe over the latest Whigs’ arguments and the insults leveled at the Tories through him.
“You are not paying attention, Treybourne, another of your weaknesses. How do you expect to quash this opponent and make it clear that his party is seeking that which will undermine the good of the nation?”
David did not answer immediately, for he was cognizant that his father would point out another fault of his—that of taking action without adequate thought and planning. Since no amount of arguments or evidence could sway the marquess once he adopted an opinion or position, David saved his efforts for when it would matter.
“What answer would you like from me, sir? If you do not feel that I can accomplish your aims, then give this honor to someone else in whom you have confidence.”
This was not new ground for them. Every time his father berated him over this role as party spokesman, he asked to be relieved of it.
In truth, he only did it for the money it brought to him. And for what he could do with those funds. Activities that would have his father in palpitations if he knew the extent of them. Projects which were too important to let this animosity between father and son interfere.
“I will continue to honor our arrangement as long as you do—ten thousand pounds per annum for your own use, unquestioned, though I do wonder over what sordid uses they may be, in return for you using your persuasive abilities to convince those in Commons and in Lords who are in thrall to the Whigs of the error of their ways.”
David swallowed deeply when he thought of losing the funds. He would not control the family’s strong and still growing fortunes until he ascended to the marquessate, at his father’s death, so he was still beholden to his father’s whims and wishes and demands.
If there were some other way, he would have gone it long ago, but writing various essays and giving speeches as an MP from one of the Dursby pocket boroughs was the easiest legal way to get the blunt he needed.
“I usually take a day or two to mull over the newest article before writing my own, sir,” he offered as he turned back and met his father’s steely gaze.
“Excellent,” Dursby said. “Remember you can always call on my man Garwood if you need assistance.”
He would never use Garwood for anything. “My thanks, sir.”
Then, with but a curt nod to warn that his visit was at an end, the marquess turned and walked to the door. He cleared his throat and waited for Berkley to open it for him, and then the sound of his heels on the floor of the entryway told David of his hasty departure.
The entire encounter took less than ten minutes of his time, but he felt as though countless years had passed since his father’s arrival. David relented on his own practice of avoiding spirits before midday and sought the decanter of brandy in the cabinet. Another regrettable lapse in control, but for now, David decided to fortify himself before his next battle…with the Scottish essayist known as A. J. Goodfellow.
A few hours later, when Berkley dared to encroach into the study to remind him of his dinner and evening engagements, David felt no closer to a suitable retort to the written assault contained in the magazine. Leaning back in his leather chair and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he considered sending his regrets to Lord and Lady Appleton even at this late hour.
No, the ball this evening would be attended by those who would know not to mention the essay in polite company. Conversation would be filled with talk of horses, soirees and the latest on-dits of acceptable gossip and not the weightier topics of politics and economics. Though he knew he was the subject of much discussion among the best of English society, David also realized it was more about his income per annum and the titles he would assume at his father’s death than the arguments in his essays.
Women controlled the ballrooms and gatherings of society and their interest was nothing so complicated as the latest bill in the Commons or Lords. Titles, wealth and lands were the yardstick of judgment and, with enough of those, most or all of a man’s foibles could be overlooked. And he had enough of all of those.
So, as Earl of Treybourne, he would take refuge there for the night. Indeed, for once, he preferred the questionable and possibly foolhardy adventures in the ton’s social schedule to facing an adversary more dangerous than any he’d faced before. That self-knowledge worried him more than his father’s appearance here before eleven in the morning.
Chapter Two
Edinburgh, Scotland
Anna Fairchild walked briskly over the Water of Leith from Stockbridge toward the New Town. Anxious to get to the offices of the Scottish Monthly Gazette, she barely spent a moment returning the greetings of those familiar faces she passed as she made her way through the fashionable area toward Frederick Street. There would be time to stop and chat on another day, but this one was special. This one could determine her success or failure in her endeavors.
This was the morning after the latest issue had been delivered to households and news sellers all over Edinburgh and London. By now, A. J. Goodfellow’s nemesis, Lord Treybourne, had read the answers to his essay and was probably still reeling over it. This was the first time that Goodfellow took the earl on directly and Anna could not wait to see the results. It was Nathaniel’s reactions that she was not so certain about.
Her usual journey of about thirty minutes from the home she shared with her sister and her aunt near the newly built Ann Street houses to the offices on the corner of George and Frederick Streets seemed to rush by, much evidenced by her out-of-breath condition upon arrival at the door. Anna looked around the office and found Nathaniel speaking to his secretary. Taking a moment to remove her pelisse and bonnet and to put her appearance back to rights, she smoothed several strands of hair loosened by her brisk pace and the city winds back into place in the rather severe bun at the nape of her neck.
Anna nodded to the two clerks working busily at their desk, opening and sorting the piles of letters already arriving at the office. She presumptuously blamed part of the amount of letters on the contents of yesterday’s issue and her decision to publish it, Nathaniel’s objections notwithstanding.
“I can see the pride in your gaze, Anna.” Nathaniel stood by her side near the doorway.
“Is it unseemly then?” she asked, trying to resist the urge to gloat a bit over the success of their gamble.
“A near thing.”
“We wanted to gain more attention for the magazine and, by the looks of that—” she pointed to Messrs. Lesher and Wagner at their work “—it’s been successful.”
“But at what cost?” He let out a sigh. “I have just this morning received an ‘invitation’ to speak to several of the Whig leaders about the latest essay.”
“I would think that you would be pleased by that, Nathaniel. Part of this plan was for you to gain some notice and begin to move toward election to Commons. Surely, this will build your reputation and possibly even gain you a patron toward that end.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? More likely you will find yourself engaged in a debate on the floor of the Commons with the target of that essay.”
“Trey?” he asked.
“Trey?” she echoed now recognizing the familiarity that he’d never exposed to her before.
“We attended Eton and Oxford together. I thought I had mentioned it to you when we started this endeavor.”
Anna forced the first three thoughts, ones not appropriate for mixed company and certainly not from a woman of gentle birth, back into her mind and spoke her fourth one. “Perchance you should have made your prior acquaintance clearer to me a bit earlier than this moment?”
Her tone drew the attention of the clerks, Nathaniel’s secretary and several delivery men and visitors to the office. Anna closed her mouth and lowered her eyes modestly. Now was not the time to jeopardize all that they worked so hard to accomplish. Nathaniel nodded toward his office. She walked inside, and waited for him to follow her in and close the door behind them.
“Anna, I am certain I mentioned it to you when we planned these essays.” He stepped behind his desk and waited for her to be seated across from him. “And I repeated my concern over mentioning him by name this early in our campaign.”
It had been Nathaniel who had first named it “their campaign” and it had appealed to her sense of organization and judgment. Theirs was a campaign. Not a military battle certainly, but a moral and economic one.
She thought on his words and those expressed when they reviewed the essay. “Will Lord Treybourne retaliate?”
Anna smoothed the wrinkles of her forest-green gown over her lap and tugged off her gloves. Tucking them inside her reticule, she laid it on his desk, on top of one of the numerous piles of magazines, newspapers, leaflets and other printed matter. When he did not answer, she looked up and met his gaze.
His worried gaze.
“Financially?” she asked.
“I think not,” Nathaniel said. “The Lansdale family seat is in Dursby in western England. They own properties all over England, even a few here in Scotland. We have nothing financially appealing to tempt them to attack. But…”
“But?” Nathaniel was not usually an alarmist in matters of business, one of the very reasons she valued his input.
“I do not remember Lord Treybourne as such a stickler for propriety when we were at the university. His position surprised me and still does. This makes him unpredictable to me now.”
“Ah, life at the university! I have read that even divinity students succumb to the temptations of that life and all it offers. And young men are susceptible to many pressures,” she said, allowing a slight smile to curve her lips. “The Marquess of Dursby has long supported Tory positions. It is natural, I think, for his son to do so as well.”
“The Prince Regent did not always agree with his father,” Nathaniel countered. “Anna, I think you must be reading all manner of improper material if the subject is such an inflammatory one as the occupations of young men at university.”
“But when forced to it by the economics of his lifestyle, he certainly discarded his long-held beliefs and conformed,” she replied. “And my reading material, other than the Gazette, is none of your concern.”
Although, at first, a frown dug deep angles in his forehead and drew his eyebrows together and his eyes turned a darker shade of green, Nathaniel smiled at her. “If you would accept my offer of marriage, it would be.”
He had pulled their two separate topics of conversation into one and brought it to an abrupt halt. But, it was the true affection in his eyes that caused her stomach do a flip and her heart to beat a bit faster. Anna looked away to try to calm her rapidly beating heart, after hearing such a declaration.
“There is no new ground to turn on that matter, Nathaniel. You know that you and Clarinda are my dearest friends and held in the highest regard. Marriage, although desirable and necessary for most women my age, is something I simply am not seeking.”
She thought him long ago disabused of the idea of marriage between them, so this new request surprised her. Was he truly worried that Lord Treybourne or his father, the marquess, would seek to destroy their fledging publication over this disagreement of position and politics? Nathaniel’s expression gave her a moment of tension before he nodded his head and smiled.
“I think you simply avoid the controls that would be in place if you marry—your husband would certainly curtail your work here and at the school. And control your money,” he added. “That is what I think you fear the most.”
He most likely had no idea of how close to the truth his words were.
Anna had struggled for years to keep her family together after her father’s death and during her mother’s illness. Her own education at the fashionable Dorchester School for Girls outside Edinburgh made it possible for her to support them through those difficult years. Then, with her mother’s death and an unexpected, though modest, inheritance, she was able to invest a portion of it in Nathaniel’s dream—a monthly magazine. Now, the funds from their increasingly successful endeavor supported both of them, as well as several charities for the poor.
“Shall we return to the topic that brought us here this morning, Nathaniel?” He seemed to have lost the trail of the conversation so she refreshed his memory. “Lord Treybourne,” she repeated the name of A. J. Goodfellow’s adversary. “Are you overly concerned about his reaction to the essay? Or just worrying, as is your custom when each new issue is published?”
“I fear something of both, Anna. The Trey I knew at school was always direct about his displeasure. If he believes I—we, that is—have crossed a line with this, I think he will contact me directly about it. As to the new issue, I am pleased to tell you that our subscription demand has risen more than ten percent over the last month.”
She quickly calculated how much that would be, after the additional expenses, and smiled. “That is excellent news!”
“I have the figures here for you to review at your convenience,” he offered.
“With your assurances, there is no need for me to do that.” She did not doubt his honesty, just his willingness to see their plan, their campaign, through. Anna understood that their motivations for investing in the publication were completely different, but she also realized early on that they could both accomplish their own aims together.
“Nathaniel, I do think you should go to London.”
He seemed startled by her change in topic again and the frown said so. “You do? But Clarinda is coming to visit next week. And Robert.”
Anna stood and walked to the window, peering through it to observe the activity on the very busy corner outside the offices. Nathaniel politely rose as well. She waved him back to his seat and stared out as she organized her thoughts.
“I do not think you must accomplish this trip in haste. Truly I think that waiting until after Clarinda returns home is the best timing. Lord Treybourne will be busy this next week trying to frame his response to Mr. Goodfellow’s address. You should not appear too overly concerned with his reaction, but I suspect it would be best to meet him at a time advantageous to you. One when you can speak of gentlemanly subjects and leave when you have made your point.”
