Chapter Two
London
MURIEL HAD TWO MONTHS TO find an English lord before Parliament recessed along with the season, and after her first morning’s extensive calling with Lady Ingram, she had already committed more faux pas than she could count. Apparently, for every rule she didn’t know in Kent society, there were two more to take its place in London.
It had taken an agonizing two weeks to arrange her travel from Chilham to London what with securing an invitation from the Ingrams and having a fleet of new dresses ordered and altered. During that time, the village had treated her as a pariah. The censure against her had grown so palpable she even deemed it necessary to neglect Sunday service, after which the vicar called upon her to offer her his advice and pass her a sealed letter. He said it contained a psalm he thought she would find useful. But, in truth, she had been so mortified by his calling to offer advice she scarcely recalled what he had said and had tucked the note away in her reticule to avoid being reminded of the encounter and her lack of decorum.
But after the last residence where Muriel had accidentally dropped an iced sponge on the settee, her shortcomings were growing more and more evident despite Lady Ingram’s assurance that Muriel’s vast dowry would go a long way in smoothing out any inadequacies. Even so, as there was no time to prepare before the marquess’s dinner party tonight, where the Prince Regent would be in attendance, she was beginning to wonder if she had sprung out of the baking tin and into the oven with her scheme for redemption.
Muriel ran the soles of her shoes over the decorative foot scraper in the recess by the Ingrams’ front door in Grosvenor Square and followed the elegant Lady Ingram into their opulent yet cozy London house. Fighting against the urge to slouch against the closed door at her overwhelming failure, Muriel surrendered her bonnet to the Ingrams’ butler, Clayton, mortified after the events of the morning and exhausted at the prospect of the chase before her.
“I know this morning was rather difficult for you, my dear.” Lady Ingram patted Muriel on the arm, her gray eyes sympathetic as she paused in the foyer. She whispered something to the butler before turning to Muriel. “Why don’t you find your way to the kitchen and bake us something delightful? Clayton is having the staff vacate it now. Your father mentioned it always calms you, and I’ve already forewarned the staff to accommodate you. We can discuss circulating amongst the nobility more in depth after tonight. I want to see you in action before I attempt to help mold you.”
Hadn’t her mishaps today been evidence enough that Muriel desperately needed instruction? But she smiled her thanks to her hostess and started for the kitchen. She crossed through the grand dining room to the impressive courtyard gardens, lingering on the gravel path through the luscious flower garden that led to the detached kitchen. She plucked a blossom and inhaled, closing her eyes against all distractions. Lord, you know the desires of my heart. I’ve waited so long for a family of my own—for a gentleman who saw beyond my lack of rank. How much longer do I need to wait? Her stomach rumbled. She needed to bake. Perhaps she would hear the Lord amidst flour, sugar, and yeast.
She tucked the flower into her coiffure and tentatively opened the door only to find that the cook and staff had already quit the area, leaving their preparations for the next meal on the corner of the far counter and the cast iron open range hot for her use. Humming, she tied on the clean apron she found laid out for her on the long pine table that was scrubbed pale from years of use, the scarring in the wood sanded down but still visible. Measuring, sifting, mixing, and rolling, she sorted through her mistakes and brought them to the Lord, hoping for a solution to save her reputation in London before she had truly even begun her search for her titled lord at tonight’s grand ball.
By the time her apple pie was ready to come out of the oven and her second batch of vanilla scones was ready to go in, she had a comforting sheen of sweat on her brow and her prayers had turned into singing—or rather bellowing—her favorite hymns. Wiping her hands on her apron, she worked out a recipe that she thought would be a match for the sponge she had tasted and promptly dropped during her calls this morning. She rose on her tiptoes to reach the tin marked Flour on the third shelf in the dry larder, which was acceptable if one was of an average height, but Muriel, being only an inch over five feet, could only scrape the bottom of the ten-pound tin with her fingertips. She snatched her wooden rolling pin from the table and used the tip to scoot the tin to the edge of the shelf, intending to catch it as it fell.
A man’s large, calloused hand shot above her head and seized the tin. “Allow me to assist you.”
Her song strangled itself in a gasp. Whirling, she rammed into his arm, causing the tin to slip from his grasp and the heavy pin from her hand. Both knocked him on the head, loosening the lid and showering them with flour as he fell to his knees with a grunt and then collapsed face flat onto the brick pavers.
“Lord, have mercy.” Muriel clutched her hand to her throat and sank to her knees beside the crumpled giant. Grabbing his muscular right shoulder with all her strength, she flipped the man onto his back and saw at once that his left arm was in a sling. His large, Grecian nose trickled blood from his fall to the bricks. Other than that and the lump already forming just below his thick chocolate hairline, he was in marvelous physical condition. With his impeccable jawline and the sun-kissed skin that she glimpsed beneath the flour, she knew he had enjoyed fine health before waltzing into her kitchen. She leapt to her feet and ran for the pitcher of water on the counter. Pitcher wrapped in her arm, she dipped her fingers inside and flicked water onto his flour-covered face as if he were a pie crust, continuing the practice until a fine paste had formed on his forehead and a moan escaped his full lips.
“Oh, thank God. I haven’t killed him,” she whispered, sinking onto her heels and wiping her forehead, feeling the grit of flour roll across her skin. She leaned over him, her dark hair spilling free from her coiffure over her shoulder, flowing down to his chest. “Sir? Are you hurt badly? Sir? Can you hear me?”
As he was once again lying too still for comfort, she dared to rest her hand gently on his chest, feeling beneath his waistcoat hardened muscles that spoke of years of hard labor. She patted the magnificent man’s cheek with her left hand, hoping to wake him. “Sir?”
His strong hand grazed over his brass waistcoat buttons until it rested atop hers, tightening as he coughed from the bits of flour he’d no doubt inhaled. His thick, paste-covered lashes flickered and, focusing on her, his dark eyes widened at the sight of her. He lurched upward, wincing.
She pressed her hand to his chest, forcing him to stay seated. “Sir? Are you hurt?” She repeated.
“Nothing that time won’t heal.” He ran his finger over the lump with a grunt, his words slurring, “I apologize for alarming you, miss.” He motioned to a crate sitting at the open back door. “I was delivering a package for his lordship.”
She sank back on her heels. With an injured arm? He must need the money, and here I’ve potentially injured him further! “My apologies, sir. I didn’t hear you knock or enter the kitchen … or dry larder.” Her gaze ran over his coat. Though covered in flour, it was well tailored for a deliveryman who was desperate enough to work through an injury. Perhaps he has fallen on hard times and has mouths to feed at home?
“With your singing, I imagine not.” His molasses eyes sparkled at her.
Her cheeks warmed at being caught. Hopefully he would think it from the heat of the oven. “So are you going to tell me your name? Or did I knock that directly from your head?”
“Erik.” He extended his hand to her, his delicious, deep voice commanding the room, even if it was only her and the baked goods.
He was most certainly a deliveryman. In her brief time in London, she had learned the nobility always expected one to know their titles and would only introduce themselves with the fullest extent of their names. But she would not be snobbish with a man who would have been a match for her only a decade ago by reciting her full name. She accepted his hand, shaking it as she had in the old days and enjoying the freedom of informality. “Pleasure to meet you, Erik. I’m Muriel.”
“Ariel? What a lovely name.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed back the need to correct him. What did it matter? He would only ever see her again on the off chance she was in a baking storm and he was delivering something to the kitchen.
He hoisted himself up and extended his hand to help her stand even as he swayed on his feet.
She scrambled to her feet and wrapped her arms around him at once, steadying him as she craned her neck to assess his coloring. His lips quirked into a surprised half smile at her actions, as if he was not accustomed to females throwing their arms about his waist. Her cheeks heated once again at her forwardness. Even if he was a deliveryman and unavailable, he was still a man and she a supposed lady, and here she was with her arms about him. She pushed him toward a stool alongside the counter where she had been working. “Perhaps you should have a seat? Are you hungry?” Without waiting for an answer, she snatched a vanilla scone with bits of melted chocolate inside and handed it to him.
He nodded his thanks and took a bite, his eyes widening. “This is divine, Miss Ariel. I have not tasted such a delightful treat in months.”
“My secret ingredient is soured cream.” She couldn’t keep herself from querying, “Do you have a gaggle of children? You must take some with you to your family. It’s the least I can do. I have a dozen I can spare.” She piled the warm scones into a cloth along with a few pastries, tying the corners into a knot and pushing away the old ache of wishing she were baking for her own little ones and husband.
“That is entirely unnecessary, but I can’t seem to find a way to say no.” Erik grinned and accepted the makeshift sack. “And as I have no family or children, I know I will be feasting on your baking for my dinner.”
Oddly pleased with this striking man’s lack of a wife and that he enjoyed her baking, she tested the tin that held the apple pie and, satisfied it would not burn him, covered it with a cloth and slid it over to him, making a mental note to replace the items from her pin money. “Please, take the pie as well.”
He looked as if he were about to protest, but then he inhaled the delightful aroma of cinnamon and grinned. “I thank you, Miss Ariel, for your kindness.”
She smiled up at him—he was still taller than her even while seated—and nodded toward the small crate, partly to get her mind away from his arresting eyes that made her wish to bake a chocolate confection in the same hue. “So, what’s inside the crate? It must be important for you to risk your life by entering my kitchen unannounced.”
“Well, usually a domestic delivery does not entail such risks.” He winked at her, finishing off his scone. “I’m delivering exotic tea. His lordship has quite the taste for it.”
“Ah, do you work for a tea merchant?” she interjected as she rested her hip against the counter and crossed her arms, unable to keep herself from attempting to piece together this handsome man’s story.
“I’m a sailor, which led to this.” He gestured to his arm. “So I am anchored until my arm heals, which hopefully won’t take too long, as there is much for me to do at sea.”
“I’m so sorry for your injury. You must have been doing something exciting to receive it. I’ve only sailed the River Thames once when I came here with my parents years ago. I never tossed my accounts once, which the captain said is a trait needed at sea.”
His lips parted. “You spoke with the captain about tossing your accounts?”
She checked the clock atop the cook’s desk, peeked into the oven, and retrieved the scones, a burst of vanilla filling the air. “It came up because Vivienne, my dearest friend, was ill, and I wished to provide a remedy. I asked the staff to prepare some ginger tea for her. While I waited for them to ready the brew, I snuck to the bowels of the vessel to explore and was found out by none other than the captain—”
He hid his chuckle behind his hand.
“Did I say something diverting? I’m always saying something odd when I get too comfortable around someone,” she muttered, raking her fingers down her cheeks and shaking her head. “I suppose I must simply remain uncomfortable for my time here in order not to shame myself.”
“Not at all … I’ve simply been aboard a ship for a long while and haven’t had such delightful conversation in quite some time.”
Her brow lifted at his turn of phrase, which seemed rather polished for the crewmen she had encountered. Perhaps it was his deep voice that made every word seem elegant. His gaze held hers in a most disconcerting manner, as if he found her captivating, and the spark in her belly echoed his interest. No. No! You had your chance to find any man of any status you desired in the whole county of Kent, and you ruined it. A title or nothing, Muriel Beau. She dropped her gaze and bent to retrieve the flour tin and save the remaining flour. “Be that as it may, I don’t think very many London girls are like me.”
He claimed the tin at once and set it on the counter for her. “No, I think not, but I must say again that these scones are the best I’ve ever had. Where did you train?”
Relieved at the change in topic, she measured away for her sponge and, without telling him of her mother’s marriage to a gentleman, spoke to him of her happiest days in her little bakery in the village of Chilham.
The Earl of Draycott held the pie to his chest with his injured hand as he closed the kitchen door behind him and took the side door that led out toward Brook Street, still smiling from the gentle baker’s behavior toward him. It had been nice to be seen for a few moments as a fellow servant and not a captain, or an earl—even if it had resulted in a ruined suit and a lump on his forehead. The pretty country baker had made it worth the pain with her attention, the mound of scones, and the tantalizing pie.
Children darted around him from behind, thin and bedraggled, their eyes lingering on the pie in his hands. Though wrapped with a cloth, the sweet aroma wafting out called to all nearby. He sighed. If the pie were half as tasty as it smelled, he would have been in for a treat. He handed it, along with a coin, to the eldest in the group, a scrawny girl of mayhap seven years or so in a gown that was more tatters than fabric. The trio scampered off with whispers of thanks. He grinned at their enthusiasm and for the excuse it lent him to return to Ariel’s kitchen all the sooner, under the guise of needing another baked good in compensation for his head wound and bloodied nose.
It had been quite nice to have a pretty girl smile at him without guile or farce. The thought of her bright eyes made him hesitate, though. It was not prudent to flirt with any woman with whom he could not possibly have a future, no matter how excellent a baker she was … not with the clause in his uncle’s will about his state of matrimony and his need for an heiress to sustain the Draycott estate for future generations. Apparently his prize money from the war against Napoleon was insufficient. Further, he hoped to hire this unusual baker when he at last retired from chasing smugglers and French ships across the high seas, even if it required him to poach her from his old friend and captain, Sir Alexander. No, it would not do to think on the maid beyond her baked goods.
As no hackney would wish him in his coach with the flour coating him, he trotted down to a less populated street toward his London residence in Berkeley Square when a shadow caught his eye. He fought to maintain his easy gait. Ears attuned to the boots clicking a steady pace behind him, he cautiously reached into his coat, wincing against the pull on his shoulder wound. He gripped his gun and, in a single motion, whirled around, planting the barrel of his pistol into the chest of the man. “Why are you following me?”
The man lifted his hands, a knife gripped between his middle fingers. “I don’t want no trouble.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come looking for it. Did Requin send you?”
His gaze clouded. “Don’t know no Requin. You gave money to my litter.”
“And you wished to thank me with a knife between my shoulder blades and pilfer the remainder of my funds?” Erik challenged, his jaw clenching.
The man’s eyes flicked over Erik’s shoulder. Keeping his gun trained on the man, Erik risked a glance to ensure it wasn’t Requin’s man creeping up on him. Two women on the front step of a row house skittered to a halt at the sight of his gun before dashing inside, which gave the pickpocket a chance to bolt. Erik didn’t wish to risk firing at a man in the row of houses, where families might exit at any moment. If the man were in Requin’s pocket, he would be dealt a far less generous hand for his failure. Likely, though, he was naught but a common thief.
Erik returned his pistol to its holster under his jacket and chastised himself for the close encounter. He paused at the edge of Berkeley Square’s gardens, frowning as he gazed up at his building. Though he had not seen the place in the nearly three years since signing his last contract with the crown, he’d sent more than enough funds for his estate’s care. Yet not a single curtain was drawn. Thoughts of the pickpocket faded as he trotted to the front door and tapped the wrought iron knocker. He hadn’t let the staff know he’d returned, but that was the nature of being wounded. It left little time for warning. Even so, someone should have been at the door to welcome him or anyone who might approach the house. He pulled the bell, the strident ringing sounding through the carved front door.
When no answer came, he patted his pockets, found the skeleton key, and unlocked the door. His jaw slacked at the dust covering every surface, the cobwebs expertly woven between the chandelier’s crystals, and the gilded looking glass covered in a gray cloth that might have been white at some point. As he strode farther into the foyer, he noticed dust did not lift from the marble floors, as if they, at least, had been swept recently. He scowled.
“Mrs. Hodge?” He called up the stairs for the housekeeper, leaning over the gold leaf stair rail that left his palms covered in dust. In all his years staying with Uncle over his winter breaks from sailing, Erik had never seen this house in such disrepair, with cracks in the front windows, dingy drop cloths over every piece, and even the gilded sconces caked in dust.
“Mrs. Hodge?” He strode down the hall toward the basement kitchen, his footsteps echoing the pounding in his chest. Had his nemesis discovered his true identity and followed him home at last? He ran his hand over his freshly shaven jaw. It wasn’t the best of disguises, but at sea he had worn a full beard, only ever shaving when he returned home. The only ones who had ever seen him without a beard were the skeleton crew he trusted to see to the ship while others took in the delights of London. Surely, he would have been notified if Requin had attacked his residence and staff in revenge for Erik’s capturing a high-ranking smuggler in his ring? But what else could he think when his well-paid staff was nowhere to be found?
If there had been an attack, you and all of London would have been notified.He exhaled and took account of the ground floor. If his modest four-storied home was this deviant, how much worse off was his castle in Draybridge? He searched the length of the house for the housekeeper, or anyone at all. The place was all but abandoned. At a thumping at the rear servant’s entrance, Erik ducked into the shadows and watched as the doorknob turned and his retired butler, Trumbull, ambled inside, a basket over one arm and a cane clutched in the other. His clothes were clean, albeit in desperate need of replacing.
“Trumbull?” Erik strode out of the shadows.
“Erik Draycott?” His wrinkled lips parted and slowly spread into a smile, revealing his yellowed teeth. He swung open the back door. “This explains your two trunks on the back stoop, my lord. You are home at last. It’s been, what? Three years?”
Erik nodded and fetched the luggage himself, hefting one end of his largest trunk first, the effort straining the stitches of his once-fine suitcoat as he dragged the trunk inside. “An injury forced me to return unexpectedly.” Wincing, he readjusted his black cloth sling and nodded to their surroundings. “Where is everyone? And why on earth is this place in such disrepair?”
“I thought you knew, your lordship. Your steward closed up this house, save for me to keep it from being robbed.”
Erik eyed the bent man. If Mr. Trumbull was all that stood between this place and danger, it was a wonder the house had not been emptied by burglars. “That is preposterous. I have been sending more than enough funds to see to its upkeep.” Either Guy Mayfield is being overly zealous in his attempt to save the estate, which I highly doubt, or the payments are being intercepted. He clenched his fists. He trusted his steward unreservedly, and Requin’s reach had proven to be further than he had thought possible in the past. He could not afford to underestimate him again. If Requin was behind the missing funds, more than just his London house was at risk.
“I do not know the reason, my lord. Mr. Mayfield said you wrote to him and asked him to redirect the funds for this house to some bank in London.”
Requin knew. Erik’s neck prickled. He didn’t know how the smuggler had discovered his identity … and why had Requin stopped his attack with the funds of the London residence? Which bank was funneling money into his enemy’s pocket? He swallowed, attempting to keep his expression and voice clear of emotions. “I shall remedy that at once. The place looks dreadful.”
Trumbull set his basket atop the surprisingly clean kitchen table. “It’s all I can do to climb the levels each night to draw the curtains and light and unlight the lamps to keep people from thinking the townhouse is completely vacant and unguarded. My knees wouldn’t allow the climb today. Besides that, I try to thoroughly clean a room a week.”
At a room a week, no wonder the house looked as it did. “Which one is clean now?”
“I set up my room in the butler’s pantry, so it is clean as well as the kitchen.” His cheeks reddened. “Now I am wishing I didn’t just clean my rooms this week. However, the rotation—”
“Please. Do not fret on my account.” Erik unbuttoned his coat with his good arm, grimacing as he slipped the ruined piece from his shoulders and off his injured arm, at once returning his left arm into the sling, the strain leaving a sheen of sweat on his brow as his shoulder and wrist throbbed. His hand slipped to the pain medication in his pocket.
His London doctor, who had been Erik’s first call upon disembarking this morning, had insisted on supplying him with it the moment Erik admitted to the pain keeping him from sleeping for the past two weeks. After ensuring that the rapier wound to his shoulder was clean and on the mend, the doctor insisted on immobilizing Erik’s wrist and shoulder with a wrap and sling for the remainder of the week. At Erik’s protest, the doctor reminded him that he was fortunate to have only a sprained wrist and a clean shoulder wound. He’d narrowly missed damage to his ligaments that would have rendered his arm fairly useless. Not to mention that the cut could have easily festered. Erik had to swallow back his retort on having an efficient ship’s doctor, lest he elongate the conversation.
For the pain, the doctor assured Erik that opium was quite effective. Still. Erik withdrew it from his pocket and bit the cork, tugging it free from the neck as he thrust the bottle out of the back window, turning it upside down. The contents splattered on the cobblestones as they drained away. He’d rather never sleep than rely on that devil’s brew. He’d seen firsthand what it could do when his uncle was lost in grief over his wife’s death. Trumbull made no comment as Erik tossed the empty bottle into the rubbish bin.
“I will be bunking with you until I can acquire new staff and get to the bottom of the redirection of the funds. Until then, I need to ready myself for a ball tonight in Kensington Gore. The Prince Regent will be there, and I need to make his acquaintance at last, considering my newly inherited title.” He regarded his trunks and ran his hand over his left shoulder, grunting. “I am loath to ask it of you, but would you mind acting as my valet?”
“Of course, my lord.” The butler beamed. “To feel useful again is a wonderful thing.”
Erik adjusted the strap anchoring him to the land when his soul longed to be at sea making a difference in the war against Napoleon. “Yes, I understand how you feel.” He cleared his throat and shook off his self-pity. If he must be grounded, he would at least lobby for one more contract from the Prince Regent’s advisor, giving him another year to capture the greatest smuggler of his time. And with Sir Alexander acting as advisor, he would be setting sail with his new letter of marque within a fortnight.