Her Heart’s Rightful Earl

Chapter 1

Alexander Hartwell crouched, shrouded in the shadow cast by the leafy London Sycamore tree that towered above him. Across the street stood the familiar tall townhouse with its windows glaring back at him like unseeing eyes. He felt watched, always.

Inhaling a deep breath, Alexander braced himself to step into the pool of light dappled onto the pavement by the gas street lamp, a new installation since he had last visited, but as he conjured up the courage to surge forward, a carriage clattered noisily around the corner of the street.

Alexander darted back into the depths of shadow just as a pale face peered out of the passing barouche-landau. If he hadn’t thrown himself instinctively backwards, his presence would most certainly have been witnessed.

He was grateful for his dark hair, as he bent his head low so as not to be seen. His hair was mussed from his long journey, and his light blue eyes were wide and alert as he hid in the shadows.

As the late-night travellers rattled away over the cobblestones, Alexander reprimanded himself for his carelessness, questioning how it was possible he did not hear its approach.

His mind was entirely distracted by this most important of missions and the critical nature of his concealment. He was so eager to get into the house that he had neglected to engage all his senses, though he knew such a blunder could cost him his freedom.

Alexander needed to cross the street and access the house without being seen.

He closed his eyes and momentarily savoured the prospect of being received warmly by his most fond and loyal friend, Viscount Lord Thomas Carrington, and the luxury of being in a home of opulence, comfort, and familiarity, after so long away from home.

Alexander ached to once again be in the company of friends and to feel secure; his body, his mind, his emotions—his whole being pined for affectionate exchange.

Remembering the last time he was home, his body seized up with ripples of anxiety. It had been the worst night of his life.

Screwing his eyes tight, the horrific vision revisited Alexander—three years ago in 1813, his father slumped over the desk with his head lolled in a pool of his own blood.

Alexander had received a handwritten message from the late Earl of Wellwood, requesting his attendance as a matter of urgency.

Always prompt to assist his father, Alexander had rushed to the Wellwood residence and into his father’s study only to be faced with this very scene, so brutal and bloody that it still haunted his dreams each night.

He had desperately run to his father’s body, already knowing—from the cloying metallic scent and copious quantity of blood—that his father was past saving.

He had bent over him in a desperate embrace before pulling away his hands in horrified realization that his hands and clothes were soaked in blood.

It was at that inopportune moment that Alexander’s younger brother bound into the room.

As he processed the horrendous scene laid out before him, a guttural yelp of anguish left his throat, and as he approached the desk, where Alexander leaned over his father’s bloodied body, Marcus declared ‘Murder! Our father has been murdered!’

It seemed an impossibility to Alexander; his father who was so well-loved and highly regarded. He could not fathom why anybody would want to harm him.

‘Brother,’ Marcus had taken his elder brother by the shoulder in earnest, ‘this scene does not cast a favourable light upon you …’

Alexander had not immediately comprehended Marcus’s concern, but as he watched his brother’s eyes roam, panicked, over the blood smeared on Alexander’s shirt and hands, the grim realization hit him. Alexander understood that he would appear guilty of patricide.

‘You must depart, directly,’ Marcus advised.

Alexander stared at his brother, unable to register his instruction.

‘The magistrate will attend, Alexander.’ Marcus was lifting his brother’s arm, coaxing him towards the door. ‘This is a matter of extreme urgency. I will fabricate some narrative to salvage the family’s honour, but it will be futile if you are discovered here, plastered in Father’s blood spill …’

Alexander had fully comprehended, then. He’d thanked his brother profusely for risking his own reputation and had bolted out.

But even as he’d fled—with shock visions of his father’s lifeless body, horror at the prospect of evading the magistrate and heartbreak at leaving his mother and the family home—his heaviest concern was Arabella.

He was now obliged to abandon his betrothed, void of explanation.

Alexander came to, shaking his head, finding himself still ensconced within shadow. Whenever his mind revisited that terrible night, he found himself entirely transported back. He blinked, grounding himself in the present with the essential task ahead.

He shivered slightly. It was milder here in London than it had been in Scotland, and the daytime had been all blue skies and bright sunshine, but the early April night saw the air drop into a chill, and Alexander pulled his worn jacket around him.

Alexander knew that if a member of the household staff were to answer the door, he must obscure his face with his collar, keep his head bent low, and introduce himself as James MacLeod—the name he had taken as his own these past three years.

Upon his announcement, Thomas would recognize his alias and attend presently, ushering his staff away.

Alexander took a deep breath, pulled his collar up around his face, looked both ways up and down the street, engaging his ears this time, and—satisfied that the area was quiet and empty—lunged forward, darting across the cobbles and ascending the steps in determined leaps.

Lifting the knocker to bring it assertively down upon the wood of the door, he was startled as the door opened before he even knocked.

Standing in the warmly lit hallway, Thomas gasped at the sight of his old friend upon the doorstep. His face drained of colour as the severity of the situation hit him.

Without a word, Thomas pulled Alexander inside the house and ushered him into his study, the first door off the grand hallway.

Alexander quickly took in the familiar entrance as they passed through; the highly polished mahogany bannisters that snaked up the staircase with their thick red carpet runner bordered by a glossy wooden finish.

An extravagant bouquet of flowers cascaded from a small round table in the centre of the parquet-floored hall.

Thomas urgently locked the study door behind them both and turned, leaning against the wooden door with an enormous sigh.

He stared for a moment, taking in the appearance of his visitor; Alexander had a naturally pale complexion, but his skin now told of lengthy exposure to sunshine, and the tanned tone only accentuated the paleness of his panicked eyes.

He was only in his late twenties, a couple of years younger than Thomas, but his face was set in the manner of a man who had experienced some perils.

Alexander saw Thomas’s eyes flick to the window, assured by the drapes covering them, and then his eyes rested back on the face of his much-missed companion.

“What on earth are you doing here!?”Thomas asked, exasperated, pushing his dark hair away from the strong bone structure of his pale face.

“Your letter, old friend.” Alexander stepped towards him. “Regarding my mother’s ill health. Did I understand correctly? I did not misinterpret your code?”

Thomas closed his eyes at the realization. “No, you are correct. She is suffering, I regret to say. However, it was not my intention that you attend physically, Alexander,” he reprimanded gently.

“It was inconceivable to consider I should stay away,” Alexander said with a shrug.

“I meant only to advise you. I would not be a dear friend to you should I conceal such important family news. These three years past, I have relayed to you all relevant details through our coded letters. I do not believe the secrecy has been compromised at any point.”

Alexander shook his head, wishing to convey gratitude at Thomas’s covert efforts to help him through his exile.

“It would have been severely remiss of me to neglect this most crucial information regarding your poor mother,” Thomas continued.

“I am grateful to you for advising me, Thomas. Surely, though, you did not expect me to stay away under such circumstances?”

Thomas looked at the floor, shaking his head slightly.

“I suppose I must have known you would return, loyal son that you are. But what risks you are taking, Alexander! The people of London believe you to be dead. If you are seen, not only will there be public outcry, denouncing your supposed deceased status, but the magistrate will hold you responsible for the murder of your Father!”

“I am aware of the risk, Thomas. Yet I cannot allow my poor mother to die believing she will never see me again.”

“I understand, Alexander. Though I cannot proclaim I believe this action to be within your best interests.” Thomas’s dark brow furrowed in concern.

“Regardless, I am here.” Alexander spread his arms wide as if in announcement, and Thomas allowed a smile to break through, despite himself.

Thomas closed the gap of a few short steps between them to heartily embrace his friend, with a laugh broadcasting relief. He embraced Alexander fondly, and Alexander smiled for what felt like the first time in years.

“And regardless, I am overjoyed to see you, friend!” Thomas laughed.

“How I wish the circumstances were better in our favour—I would have Cook prepare you a sumptuous welcome home dinner. I would offer you a bath and a soft bed in the guest bedroom. Followed by a morning of a jaunt on the horses along Rotten Row, just like we used to, remember?”

Alexander nodded with a sad smile, and Thomas sighed regretfully.

“The best I can offer you, I fear, is a Cognac. Will you partake?”