Page 11 of West End Earl
Crossing his arms to appear casual as he leaned against the door, Cal weighed his options. Roxbury had no honorable intentions toward Emma, and likely no honor in general. If paying him off was the quickest way to end the situation, then so be it. The whole business turned his stomach, but in the end, this was similar to paying a spurned and dissatisfied mistress, or a pregnant maid—and God knew he’d done that for Eastly enough times. “For two thousand pounds you’ll agree to stop your pursuit of Emma?”
“Quibble about it, and the price goes up,” Roxbury said. “Besides, it’s not as if passing around that Carlyle fortune is new for you. How many women have you paid to keep quiet after your father’s done with them? This is no different, really. But I didn’t have to see the marquess’s mini member to get my lump sum. Two thousand, delivered today. Or I’ll take a check.”
A knock at the door behind his shoulder made Cal glance at the lock. The cavalry had arrived.
“I’ll write a check now and have it done with. Call off your dogs while I use your inkwell.” A small desk against the wall held a messy pile of papers, four empty wine bottles, and an inkpot and pen. The quill nub could have used a good sharpening with a penknife, but it wasn’t Cal’s job to maintain this man’s writing tools. Shaking his head at the clutter and disarray, Cal pulled his checks from his pocket and scratched out the information required to draft such a large sum.
At the door, a bare-chested Roxbury told whoever was in the hall, “He’s here to pay a debt. You can escort him out in a moment.”
Signing his name with sharp strokes, Cal curled his lip. “There. Don’t smudge the ink, for I won’t be writing you another.” He handed the paper to Roxbury on his way out the door.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” the bastard said, then closed the door.
The footman looked more like a boxer, with the kind of nose that had clearly been broken more than once and a brow so bisected by scars, the hair had given up any attempt to grow. With a jerk of his head, the servant motioned for Cal to walk ahead, escorting him from the home in threatening silence.
But it was done. Emma was safe from one of London’s many scoundrels. Thousands more to be on the lookout for, but that was a problem for another day.
There was only one way to salvage the morning—a visit to Bond Street.
A half hour later, Cal tugged the bottom of his new waistcoat down so it fell exactly where breeches met shirt, then turned in the mirror to inspect the seamlines. Perfectly straight without a pucker or unwanted wrinkle in sight.
“Well done, Carter. Beautiful fit as always.”
“Thank you, milord. It’s always a pleasure to dress someone of your refined tastes.”
Cal shot him an amused look. “Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think? You’re just relieved it’s not a pair of trousers so I can’t make my usual dangling-cock jokes.”
Carter, predictably, bit his lip against a smile in an effort to keep his professional demeanor. It had become a sort of game between them, with Cal free to be as outrageous as he pleased, and Carter trying his damnedest to keep a straight face.
On top of that, the man really was an exceptional tailor.
“Now the coat, milord?”
The dark-green wool settled over his shoulders like a hug. “That will do nicely. You were right about the onyx buttons. They highlight the fine weave of the fabric without distracting from the lines.”
“I’m pleased you are satisfied with it, milord. If there won’t be anything else today, shall I wrap these and give them to your footman?”
“Yes, thank you.”
There was a pregnant pause as Carter helped him out of the coat, then handed it off to an assistant. “As always, we are honored to receive the continued patronage of the Carlyle and Eastly houses.”
Cal glanced over as he shrugged into his original waistcoat and fastened the buttons. “Has Eastly been in recently?”
“Last week, milord.”
“All right, then I’ll settle his account before I leave.” Otherwise, his father would live on credit until doors shut in his face all along Bond Street.
Carter nodded. “Very good, milord.” He cleared his throat gently. “I believe your father also visited the glovemaker two doors down as well.”
Of course he did. Cal smiled ruefully. “Then I shall stop by there next. Thank you, Carter.”
As predicted, the glovemaker was relieved to have Eastly’s account settled. A pair of leather gloves for Puppy and a delicately beaded pair for Emma helped reaffirm goodwill with the shop.
Sometimes he wondered if it would be easier if the shops simply sent the bills directly to him. Giving Father pin money made more sense from a financial perspective, except for the tantrum Father would no doubt throw.
On the street, Cal climbed into his carriage and tossed the two slim glove boxes onto the empty seat across from him.
He sighed and relished the quiet of the few minutes it took to get to his father’s town house. Just another day in the life of Lord Calvin Carlyle, caretaker of the Eastly family. Once he dealt with his father, he’d be free to anticipate Emma’s first trip to Vauxhall. She’d love the fireworks, and he could hardly wait to see her excitement at the acrobats.
