A Very Scandalous Fairbanks Christmas (Those Very Bad Fairbanks #14)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

C aroline huddled beneath the large mahogany desk in the Earl of Walcott’s office, her breath shallow as she strained to listen. This was not how the night was supposed to unfold. If her brother or cousins ever found out that she was almost caught breaking into the earl’s home, she would not be able to recover from her brother’s constant rebukes and her cousins’ teasing. Ester, who had been the cousin to teach Caroline about picking locks and being far too daring, would be especially mirthful.

It had taken her two days to glean the information from her brother about the earl’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square. Samuel had been annoyingly reluctant, only parting with the details after she assured him—in the most sincere and innocent tone she could manage—that she merely intended to send the man a discreet letter.

Next, she had bribed a maid with a five-pound note to learn his schedule, knowing that such a sum would loosen even the most reluctant tongue. The maid’s knowing smirk still made Caroline blush. Good heavens, the girl had thought she was planning a tryst!

She had entered the library only a few moments ago and barely had time to search before a soft moan interrupted her thoughts, and she had scurried under the desk just as the door opened.

This was a disaster . The earl was supposed to be at White’s at this hour, safely ensconced in the gentlemen’s club, sipping brandy and discussing politics with men who likely feared him. Instead, he had returned home with a lady love.

All the rotten luck.

Disbelief still filled her that he had chosen his office—of all places—for his affair. Did he not have a perfectly fine bedchamber for such matters? Scandalous men should have the decency to be scandalous in private.

Then came another breathy and high-pitched moan followed by the distinct rustle of fabric.

Caroline squeezed her eyes shut. I should not be listening. I should not be curious.

And yet …

Biting her lip, she inched closer to the edge of the desk, her heart hammering in her chest. Just one peek.

One.

She carefully leaned forward and peered around the corner. There, sprawled in a large armchair by the fire, was the Earl of Walcott. Indolent. Unbothered. Utterly at ease.

His cravat was loosened, and he held a glass of liquor in his hand, swirling the amber liquid as though he had nothing more pressing in the world to concern himself with. A lady—curvaceous, dark-haired, and dressed in a deep red gown that plunged indecently low—perched boldly on his thigh, her fingers trailing over his mouth in a gesture meant to be seductive.

It did not appear to be working.

Caroline might not have much experience with seduction, but she knew boredom when she saw it. Lord Walcott looked as if he would rather be anywhere but beneath the woman’s hands. The lady pouted, evidently noticing his lack of enthusiasm.

“You are not smitten with me, my lord,” she purred, running her fingers down his jawline. “I am using all my considerable skills, and I can tell your thoughts are not with me.”

He sighed. Actually sighed.

Caroline scowled, offended for the unknown lady.

“That would be an astute observation, madam,” he replied dryly, taking a sip of his drink without bothering to look at her. “I am indeed distracted. Do not allow it to stop your attempts; imagine the reward should they rouse me, hmm?”

Caroline barely held in a laugh. Arrogant.

A haughty little sniff filled the room, followed by the sharp tap of heels against the floor as the woman rose.

“I am not accustomed to being ignored,” she declared.

“Then I suggest you find someone more easily enchanted. I know I promised a pleasurable romp … however, I find that I am … bored. Through no fault of yours, Helena.”

A choked gasp of outrage escaped her.

“I shall send a diamond necklace to you tomorrow from London’s premier jeweler as an apology.”

The woman let out a small huff but thankfully took her tryst elsewhere, sweeping from the room with dramatic flair. His low chuckle echoed in the room, and then his footsteps also retreated from the room.

Thank heavens .

Caroline waited. Counted to ten. Then to twenty. Silence. This was her chance. Caroline slipped from beneath the desk, her limbs stiff and aching from crouching in such an uncomfortable position for far too long. Swallowing the nervous flutter in her chest, she carefully rose to her full height, scanning the dimly lit library.

The air smelled of aged parchment, leather bindings, and a faint trace of pipe smoke, mingling with the flickering scent of wax from the dwindling candlelight on the desk. The room was vast, its towering bookshelves lined with countless tomes, their spines worn from years of perusal. A grand mahogany desk stood at the center of the room, cluttered with ledgers, quills, and a half-finished glass of brandy, as if the earl had abandoned his work without care. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the night, leaving only the soft glow of embers in the fireplace to cast flickering shadows across the room.

Where had he put it?

Her pulse hammered as she moved swiftly across the floor, her boots silent against the thick Persian rug. She eyed the high-backed armchairs, the corner reading nooks, even peered behind the sofa where books had been haphazardly stacked on the floor. Nothing.

A frown pulled at her lips. Perhaps he had hidden it elsewhere? Then, she saw it.

Tucked neatly in a shadowed corner, half-hidden behind an armchair, as if it had been forgotten entirely. A sharp stab of irritation went through her. So, the arrogant, insufferable Earl of Walcott truly had no use for the wooden horse.

And yet, he had taken it from her anyway.

Caroline’s jaw tightened as she stalked toward it, feeling a satisfaction that almost made up for the absurdity of her predicament. Bracing herself, she bent forward and wrapped her arms around it, determined to reclaim what was rightfully hers—consequences be damned.

Still bloody heavy. And still mine.

Moving quickly, she made her way to the large desk, withdrew a fresh five-pound note, and placed it neatly in the center. That was the last of her allowance meticulously saved these last couple of years, but it was worth it. Then she reached for a quill, dipped it into the ink, and scrawled:

I have taken back my horse. I have left you more money than you paid for it. Consider this a fair exchange.

– a lady whom you wronged.

She grinned at her own audacity, blowing gently on the ink to dry it before setting the quill aside. Now … to escape. Caroline exhaled slowly, steadying her racing heart as she tightened her grip on the wooden horse. It was time to go. But first, she had to make absolutely certain she would not be caught. She tilted her head, listening intently. The house was not silent—far from it. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled sounds of a door closing and the faint hum of conversation drifted through the halls. A footman, perhaps? A maid tending to the late-night fires?

Or worse.

The Earl of Walcott himself roamed his hallways. The thought sent a sharp thrill down her spine. She gritted her teeth and gently shifted the weight of the wooden horse, careful not to let it scrape against the floor.

Good heavens, the thing was a beast. Far heavier than a simple toy had any right to be. Caroline bit back a curse and began dragging it across the thick rug, wincing at every creak and groan of the wood beneath her feet.

Slow. Steady. Don’t rush .

She maneuvered through the dimly lit hallway, sticking close to the walls, pausing every few steps to listen. A distant cough. Her breath caught, and she immediately froze, pressing herself against the cool wooden paneling of the corridor.

The sound came from somewhere beyond the staircase.

A footman? She remained still, forcing herself to count the beats of her own pounding heart. Nothing followed. No approaching footsteps. No sounds of movement. She let out a silent sigh of relief and pressed forward.

Past the music room .

Her nerves stretched tight, every creak of the house making her pulse jump.

Past the drawing room .

A soft flicker of candlelight from under a closed door made her stomach clench.

Is he still awake?

She didn’t know if Walcott had retired for the night or if he lingered elsewhere in the house, brooding over whatever dark thoughts occupied that cold, arrogant mind of his. Caroline didn’t plan to find out.

Keep moving .

She reached the side door, the one she had entered through. A sharp gust of winter wind rattled the frame, cold night air creeping through the cracks. With careful precision, she eased it open, just wide enough to squeeze herself and the wretchedly heavy rocking horse through. The moment she stepped outside, the crisp December air hit her, biting at her cheeks.

She dragged the wooden horse into the side garden, maneuvering it behind the hedge where shadows concealed her well enough. Her fingers trembled slightly as she propped it against the garden wall, her breath coming in soft pants.

Almost there .

Just one more step, and she would be free. She paused one last time, ears straining for any sounds of pursuit. The house remained silent. And then—a creak. She stiffened. The sound had come from inside the townhouse.

Her breath hitched. A door closing? A set of slow, measured footsteps moving through the corridor? Caroline pressed deeper into the shadows, her heart hammering violently.

If she were caught now …

No . That was not an option. She inhaled, counted to three, and rushed across the garden, her boots barely sounding against the frosted grass. The carriage was waiting with her footman standing alert, ready, just as instructed.

With a quick motion, she signaled to him. “The horse,” she whispered.

The footman hesitated briefly before going to fetch the toy, lifting it easily and carrying it to the carriage. Caroline followed swiftly. She let out a slow, exhilarated exhale, watching as the footman secured the wooden horse and then climbed inside and sank into the seat, her pulse still thrumming. Then, without hesitation, she rapped her knuckles against the carriage wall. “Start for Penporth.”

The wheels lurched forward, the streets of Grosvenor Square slipping away behind her. She was free. And by the time Lord Walcott discovered what she had done …

He would never see it coming.

She grinned, leaning back against the squabs, a giddy thrill racing through her blood. Caroline was not silly enough to remain in town after doing something so daring. Even if he did not know her identity, she presumed men of his consequences could easily find out. The carriage was packed, and her trunks and presents for her family were secured inside. She had even left her mother and Samuel a letter, claiming that she had been eager to begin her journey and had departed for Penporth, reiterating she had no wish to spend Christmas in Derbyshire.

It was done.

Her rocking horse was hers again.

And yet …

A shiver coursed through her as she thought of Lord Walcott. His arrogance. His calm, unreadable gaze. His formidable reputation.

Oh dear. Had she just made an enemy of a man many found unfathomable and prideful? Caroline bit her lip. Then grinned. Perhaps. And yet, she wished she could have seen his frustration of being thwarted! Caroline sighed and closed her eyes, hoping she did not come to regret her reckless move.