The earl pretender, p.1
The Earl Pretender, page 1
Table of Contents
The Earl Pretender
Copyright Notice
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing
The Earl Pretender
by
Caitlin Callery
Copyright Notice
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Earl Pretender
COPYRIGHT © 2023 by Hilary Mackelden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Edition, 2024
Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-5520-7
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-5521-4
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my wonderful son, Steven,
the people who care for him,
and to carers everywhere.
You are the world's true heroes.
Chapter One
1817
If Jane Frobisher hadn’t been so preoccupied with her family’s problems, she would have been more aware of her surroundings. Then, she might have seen the gentleman leaving the Hay Wagon in time to prevent their collision.
As it was, Jane was still angry at the butcher’s presumptuousness, and irritated by Ben, her brother, who thought it funny to run too far ahead with not a care that his sister had called him back and was, even now, racing to catch up to him. At the same time, she was frantically trying to fathom where on earth she would find four pounds, ten shillings by Friday without distressing her mother.
She saw the blur of movement as the inn’s door opened, and heard the noise of the taproom. The unmistakable smells of yeasty beer, stewed steak, and sawdust were carried on the draught of air through the door, and in the back of her brain she registered the fact that someone was coming out. At the speed she was travelling, though, she could not hope to stop in time. All she could do was turn sideways to avoid crashing into him head on, which caused her shopping basket to swing around and hit his midriff. It flew from her grasp as he gave a loud “Oof!” and knocked into her, solid muscle pushing against her tiny frame. She took one step back, then another, and teetered on the edge of the curbstone, her arms windmilling in a vain attempt to save her balance.
Everything slowed down. The noise of Bloomfold High Street faded into a thick silence. Jane seemed to float, every movement exaggerated, clear and detailed, and completely unstoppable.
Just as she fell back toward the cobbled road, bracing herself to land in one of the myriad puddles of cold, muddy water or, worse, to sit on a steaming horse apple no one had yet collected, her shoulders were grabbed by firm, strong hands and she was pulled upright. The man held onto her, steadying her, his eyes dark with what looked like concern. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear him through the deafening whoosh of blood pulsing past her ears.
For a full twenty seconds, Jane stood there, blinking stupidly, while the stranger held her, and the world tilted on its axis, nothing behaving as it ought. The wool of her pelisse should have prevented her feeling anything but the pressure of his gloved hands cupping her shoulders, yet she was strangely conscious of his warm touch heating her skin and sending a frisson of danger down her arms and into her fingers. Her heart missed a beat, even as her stomach flipped over itself, and her legs turned to jelly. No doubt at the scare from her near fall.
She took a moment to steady herself, then breathed in deeply and turned to the man who had barreled into her. If it turned out to be one of the farm laborers, taking time from his work to fill his skin with beer, he would get the sharp side of Jane’s tongue. How dare he come running out like that, without checking the pavement for pedestrians?
He wasn’t a laborer. He was not a working man at all, judging from the clothes covering the broad chest level with her eyeline. Which, she thought inanely, would make him a couple of inches over six feet tall. A whole twelve inches more than she was. Power and strength and authority emanated from him, filling the space around her, imposing and intimidating. He wore a dark coat, made from superfine, its buttons gleaming and solid, under an open greatcoat with three capes. A finely embroidered blue waistcoat covered a white linen shirt, and his cravat was simply folded, held in place with a silver stickpin, its broad, flat head sporting a design that reminded Jane of…
She gasped. The design was unusual enough to be instantly recognizable: a bird, its beak open in song, its body hidden inside an open-topped barrel. It wasn’t a design Jane would expect to come across often, and yet she had now seen it on two things: the stickpin this man wore, and a ring which belonged to Ben.
Was there a connection between this man and her brother? She couldn’t, for the life of her, think what it might be, but it frightened her. Ben could not protect himself, so if this man posed any sort of threat to him, Jane needed to deal with it. Now.
She looked up, hoping to gauge his measure, and found herself staring into a face that was far too handsome for his own, or anyone else’s, good. His jaw was firm, almost square, and she would not have been surprised to learn it was hewn from granite. His lips pressed together in a long, straight line that made him seem stern and disapproving, although his countenance was softened somewhat by the dark blue skin on his cheeks where new beard growth formed.
His eyes were dark beneath the brim of his hat, neither their color nor the expression in them easy to discern. She could see his high cheekbones, the long, thin, aristocratic nose, and the light brown hair curling below his hat. His cologne smelled like the woods after a summer rain, green and fresh, vibrant.
The caped greatcoat gave him bulk, not that he needed it. He was taller and broader than any man Jane knew. Considering half the men in this village were laborers who lifted huge bales of hay as if they were no heavier than Mama’s cross-stitch, that was saying something.
She thought she should be frightened of him, but she wasn’t. Anxious, yes, but that was because of his stickpin and the threat it might represent for Ben, and it was not the same thing as fear.
His gaze met hers and her heart hiccupped. Her mouth dried, and her breath caught in her throat, and…
It was happening again! Had she learned nothing from the last time? Although, as she recalled, with Sydney her reaction had not been so immediate, nor so stark. Sydney had had to encourage Jane, and it had been several months before she’d so much as put her hand on his arm. Although, when she had…
No! She would not let history repeat itself. She couldn’t go through that again. And anyway, what on earth was she thinking? This wasn’t a man to spin dreams about after a harmless flirtation at a village gathering. This was the lout who had rushed from the pub and almost sent her flying. He probably thought she should apologize for having the temerity to be walking where he wished to tread!
He let go of her arms, and she stepped back, spine straight as a ramrod, shoulders squared, chin tilted defiantly. Her fists clenched, pulling her worn gloves taut across her knuckles.
“I do beg your pardon, miss,” he said. His voice was rich and deep, like the rumble of distant thunder. Jane shuddered. This moment felt like the calm before a heavy storm. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No. I thank you.” Her own voice seemed soft and shaky, nothing like the sensible and practical Jane Frobisher who had, not five minutes earlier, negotiated a stay of execution at the butcher’s shop.
The butcher! Her chicken!
That tiny bird had cost her dear, not in monetary terms, but in the humiliation of having to accept it gratefully from Mr. Turner’s pudgy hands while he eyed her bosom in a way that made her feel he could see right through her clothes to the body beneath. He had leered at her as he told her how much Mama now owed. “Four pounds, ten,” he’d said, his tone apologetic, though his eyes were not. “I can’t let it get any bigger, my lovely.”
“I will remind Mama,” Jane had answered, taking a step back, out of his reach.
“We don’t have to worry your Mama.” He smiled, and it sent goosepimples across her skin. “I’m sure you and I could work out a…repayment scheme.” He licked his lips. “And to prove my good faith, I’ll only charge you tuppenc
Jane wanted to throw the chicken, which should have cost a shilling, into his face. She wanted to tell the repulsive man exactly what she thought of him and then to walk away, head held high, never to darken his doorstep again. But she couldn’t. Mama owed him far too much for cuts of meat he’d allowed on account. And they did need to eat.
So, instead of putting Mr. Turner in his place, Jane had swallowed the bitter shame, curtseyed and fled from his shop.
And now she’d dropped the chicken they needed if they were going to have any dinner tonight. All because this arrogant man hadn’t looked where he was going.
Her basket lay on its side in the road a few feet away, the chicken still half inside the paper, half on the ground. There were a few pieces of grit on the bird’s skin. Nothing she couldn’t wash off, she told herself, and took a step toward it.
Before she could reach it, however, the stranger bent and scooped it up. “My humblest apologies,” he said. “I will, of course, replace the meat.”
As was only right. She meant to thank him and accept his offer. Even though the chicken was still edible, he had knocked it from her hand, and besides, the extra meat would come in handy. Except, when her words came, they were not the ones she was thinking.
“Th-there is no need.” she answered. The sound of her own voice was shameful. She sounded breathy, and she was stuttering, for goodness’ sake! She cleared her throat, but it made little difference. “I—I must be going. Th-thank you for…”
For what? Preventing her fall? He was the reason she’d lost her balance in the first place, so she hardly needed to thank him for that. For picking up her basket, then? She supposed it had allowed her to keep a little of her dignity, which would have been completely lost had she been forced to scrabble in the mud herself. But Jane didn’t think this man would care a fig for her dignity. Saving her face had been a fortunate consequence of his action, not the reason for it.
Perhaps she should be thankful he had alerted her to a threat to Ben. She glanced at his stickpin once more, gulped, and took a step back.
“I…Good day.” She made to go around him, anxious to hurry home and tell Mama what she had seen here. And then, they would probably have to pack.
Inwardly, Jane groaned. The last thing she wanted was to leave Bloomfold and start another new life, once again surrounded by strangers. In her twenty years, Jane had moved home ten times that she remembered. Surely, that was enough for anybody.
“Janey!” Ben’s voice made her start. He ran to her.
Oh no! She did not want Ben to come too close to this man. Not until she knew exactly who he was, and how he was connected to her brother.
“I’m coming.” Trembling, she took the basket from the man’s hand, then made to hurry away.
Ben, however, had other ideas. And whereas he was normally slow and lumbering, today he was quicker than Jane. Before she could move past the man’s imposing frame, her brother reached her, a puzzled frown on his open, honest face. He eyed the stranger, then asked, suspiciously, “Who you?”
“Time to go home, Ben.” Jane gave the stranger one last glance, then stopped, her anger rising to see him staring at Ben, intently. How dare he? Ben was not some exhibit in a carnival sideshow, to be gawped at by anyone with a penny!
It had happened before, of course; Ben hadn’t reached the age of thirty without attracting some curiosity, and even Jane had to admit he was different to most people. Added to his clumsy movements and the childlike way he behaved, Ben’s distinctive features meant he was bound to be noticed, but she expected better manners from people of “the Quality,” and this man—she refused to call him a gentleman—was most definitely a member of “the Quality.” His coat was expensive and well-made, and his boots, though spotted with the mud of a day’s riding, were clearly the best money could buy.
His breeches were well made, too, and they fitted him perfectly, molding to his muscular thighs like a second skin. His flat stomach did not spoil the line of his buttoned coat…and Jane knew better than to look at a man’s flat stomach! Or his thighs.
Of such things was the road to hell made.
Besides, he was studying Ben like an insect under a scientist’s microscope. There was nothing attractive in a man who would do that. She stepped past him and looped her free arm through Ben’s.
“Come along,” she said, throwing the stranger a look of contempt.
The man shook his head as if to clear it and gave her a tiny bow. “Forgive me,” he said. “That was rude of me.”
Jane wanted to say, Yes, it was, and berate him for his boorishness. She did no such thing, but behaved instead like the lady she’d promised Mama she would be on the day she’d also sworn never again to do anything to shame the family name.
“It’s just…” The stranger smiled at Ben. “You remind me of someone I know.”
His explanation did not mollify Jane. She was aware there were others who looked like Ben. Not many, since most did not survive infancy, but enough to be noted. They weren’t pattern copies of Ben; each one bore the stamp of their own family, but they were similar, with their almond-shaped eyes and button noses. However, that was no reason to stare, and a mealy-mouthed apology did not make it all right.
“Good day, sir.” She made sure he heard her anger and disgust in those three words.
Ben, however, understood the man differently, taking his words to mean that he knew Ben himself. He frowned. “I not know you,” he said. “How you know me?”
The stranger looked nonplussed. He glanced at Jane, then at Ben. “I didn’t mean…”
“I not know him, do I, Janey?” Ben’s voice rose with his agitation. Yet another crime to lay at the feet of this oafish man. Jane spared him one more glare before moving to comfort Ben, something she needed to do quickly, before his anxiety became a full-blown tantrum.
“No, Ben,” she soothed, “you don’t know him. The—gentleman—” she hoped her eyes told him she used the term for Ben’s sake and not because the man deserved it—“has made a mistake. Let’s go home.”
She led him along the street, away from the stranger. With every step, she felt the man watching her, and she fought the urge to look back when she reached the corner and turned off the High Street, onto the lane where their rented cottage stood.
With luck, she would never see the oaf again.
Chapter Two
Robert Carrow watched them leave. There was something about that man, Ben. It was something he couldn’t be certain of, and yet…had he seen Father in his features?
It wasn’t easy to tell. The young man’s eyes were dark like Father’s, like Robert’s own, come to that, but many people had dark brown eyes. Robert had wanted to look more closely for more certain signs of familial resemblance, but staring at him had been unforgivably rude. No wonder the young woman had bristled.
She was very protective of Ben, which was good, for he was clearly vulnerable and in need of someone to care for him. But who was he? Could he possibly be the brother Robert had spent the last year searching for?
His stepmother would say it was impossible. She would point out that Robert’s father himself had said, in one of his more lucid moments, that his oldest son had died. “It broke his heart,” she’d said, shortly after Robert had become aware he’d ever had an older brother. “He’s put that in the past, where it belongs. Why would you drag it all out again?”
“I didn’t. He did.” Robert had answered through gritted teeth. He had always disliked Jessica, although he tried to hide it for Father’s sake. The man was besotted with this, his third wife, and thought she could do no wrong. It wasn’t an opinion Robert could bring himself to share.
He did try. He wanted to believe she loved her husband, that she tried to dissuade her stepson from searching for his brother because of her concern for his father’s feelings; the Earl of Barwell had been devastated when he’d spoken of his firstborn son during one of his “episodes.” There had been tears at the remembrance of his beloved first wife, and the child she’d borne him, the child who had disappeared without trace as his mother lay dying.
Jessica had begged Robert to forget the whole sorry story. “Your father is not a well man,” she’d said. “He doesn’t always make sense. I would spare him the pain of your wild goose chase.”
