Page 3 of West End Earl
She pouted her bottom lip. “You sound like an overprotective papa.”
“No, I sound like an overprotective brother, which is far worse. A papa would not know these men as peers. I’ve seen Roxbury drunk. I’ve heard how he speaks of women. Why not look towards someone kind and safe? Someone honest.”
“Someone boring, you mean?”
“What about Hardwick? He’s not boring, but he is a stand-up fellow. He’s honest. And he’ll come into his fortune soon. Earlier if he marries.” Cal tried to sound casual, but subterfuge had never been his strength.
“The scrawny redhead you cart around with you like an accessory?” The horrified scrunched-up face was not a pleasant look on her. “I hardly think I need to set my sights as low as that. You must be desperate for me to not encourage Roxbury if you’re pushing me towards Mr. Hardwick.” She studied Cal until he grew uncomfortable. That searching look could pull secrets from a dead man. “Have you already said something to Hardwick? Are you playing matchmaker, brother mine?”
Cal refused to meet her eyes. The joking offer he’d made to Puppy earlier in the evening lingered in his mind.
“You have, haven’t you? Oh, you beast! What did he say?” She would relish the failure of Cal’s attempt at pairing her off with someone who wouldn’t hurt her the way their parents had repeatedly hurt each other.
“Refused the whole plan, then emptied my flask and left me alone to deal with you.”
“Maybe I could like him after all,” she wheezed through a belly laugh.
A knock on the library’s door proved a welcome interruption. “Come in!”
Higgins entered with a note on the silver salver. “A message from Mr. Hardwick, my lord. One of his urchins delivered it but did not wait for a reply.”
Odd. The street kids knew if they waited for an answer, they’d collect payment for the reply. The Puppy hoarded his salary like a dragon clinging to gold, but he loved sharing coin with the children in the neighborhood of that hovel he rented. They came in handy when Cal sent Puppy digging around London in search of information. Children witnessed far more than people realized. That this one hadn’t darted around to the kitchen to wait while they begged treats from Cook meant no reply was expected.
Emma’s brows knit. “Is everything all right?”
The note was brief and to the point. Very Adam.
“He’s going home to Northumberland. The vicar in his village—essentially the only decent father figure he has—is not doing well. Adam leaves on the early mail coach.”
“Northumberland? He might as well ride to the moon. Why take the mail when he can borrow one of our carriages? I’m sure you would have offered,” she said.
“Because he’s a stubborn mule. Refuses to accept help most of the time and gets huffy when I offer. He won’t even take a room here as part of his employment. Claims he has everything he needs in that drafty single room he rents.”
“Then I wish him safe travels. It will be a while before you can continue your misguided matchmaking. That’s something, at least.”
Cal folded the note, with its neat, loopy penmanship, then tucked it into a pocket. “I’m going to bed, brat. I suggest you do the same. And stay out of my brandy.”
Chapter Two
They say time marches on, but when it marched through Northumberland, it must have bypassed the village of Warford to sow seeds of change elsewhere. The dirt road that ran through town with the pub at one end and the church marking the far boundary was as rutted as it had always been. No new buildings pushed those boundaries farther, and on the streets the same signs hung—nothing called attention to a fresh business venture.
She adjusted the satchel she’d packed for the journey, and stepped back to avoid the carriage wheels as the coach pulled away. It was odd to move, assume an entirely new life, and return to find that the only thing changed was her.
About three miles beyond the village stood the cold, solid stone house where the Hardwick twins had lived in misery for five years after their parents died. The small manor squatted on the land, as unyielding and lacking in whimsy as their uncle.
Memories of their time with their parents were warm, centered on their small family’s contented life in the country. After the reading of their parents’ will, the children had arrived on Milton’s doorstep, and the memories of their time there were decidedly darker.
For children reeling from the loss of their parents and their comfortable life, there’d been one haven in the town. The vicar and his son had become a small pocket of normalcy, affection, and acceptance when everything else was topsy-turvy. Milton had refused to pay for a governess, so the twins had attended lessons with the other village children at the vicarage until Adam was old enough to be sent away to school.
Vicar Arcott had helmed the church’s pulpit, confronting sinners and comforting parishioners, for as long as anyone could remember. But during those hours of lessons, it had been his steady demeanor, calming voice, and gentle affection for all the children that had made her feel safe when everything else seemed tumultuous.
John, the vicar’s son, had become a dear friend and readily accepted that the twins were a team. Where one went, the other followed.
The small vicarage stood behind the stone church that dated from the Norman times, content to exist in the shadow of the Lord’s house as the centuries slowly passed. The blue paint on the door faded in a diagonal line where the sun hit it each day before continuing on to shine through the stained-glass window of the church.
Beyond the vicarage lay the village graveyard. In the third row, fourth from the end, a simple headstone read “Ophelia Hardwick 1795–1808.” John had written that he’d planted and groomed a small patch of flowers on the grave. Spring came later in these parts, but tiny petals would just be unfurling. A splash of cheerful color in a place of loss.
The wind whipped, flinging mist like needles and threatening to dislodge the hat Cal had passed along last week. A carriage rumbled by, and she tilted her face down toward the ground so no one could identify the lone figure standing before the church.
