Page 1 of An Unwilling Earl
Chapter One
London 1850
The day was gloomy, wet, and tired looking, as if London were simply weary of being a city.
Jacob Baker dodged a muddy puddle and stepped over a steaming pile of horse dung. With a quick sidestep he barely missed running down a finely dressed matron.
She sniffed and harrumphed and lifted her chin to stomp past him.
Jacob was late for a meeting with the estimable Oliver McCaron, the Earl of Armbruster. It was their weekly Mayhem Meeting, as they liked to call it, where they perused the newspapers looking for the most sensational crimes and tried to solve them while drinking copious amounts of port. They had been doing this for years. Jacob wasn’t quite sure how this amateur sleuthing actually started, but he seemed to remember it was after some drunken revelry.
A sudden shout from the street and the terrified cry of a horse made him turn to find the frightened animal, pulling a loaded cart of barrels, rearing onto its hind legs. Below him, cowering on the cobblestones, was a young man, arm extended to shield his face, head turned away from the deadly hooves.
Jacob jumped over a puddle to grab the young man’s arm and drag him away before the horse could trample him. The man was more of a boy, and he appeared to be quite wanting in the food department, for he was very insubstantial. So insubstantial that Jacob yanked much harder than needed and ended up on his rear on the wet cobblestones, the boy sprawled on top of him.
Quickly the boy pushed himself up, springing to his feet in a remarkably graceful way.
Jacob stood a little more slowly, brushing the mud and gunk off his trousers. The driver yelled a few obscenities followed by a rude hand gesture and urged the nervous horse on.
“Are you hurt?” Jacob asked.
The lad shook his head. His face was grubby. Only God knew how long it had been since it had been washed.
He was wearing a red velvet waistcoat with odd patches worn off in places. His jacket, so old and dirty that the creases were shiny with grime, was blue and sported wooden buttons. Even his shoes did not match, one black button-up, the other brown laced. His shirt was brown now but had probably been white at the beginning of its life.
The boy’s face was smooth, with not a bit of facial hair, and he had wide blue eyes. The eyes appeared larger, the cheeks sunken. Dirty blond hair stuck out from beneath an old top hat that he had shoved onto his head after Jacob unceremoniously yanked him out from the horse’s hooves.
“At least tell me that you are unhurt,” Jacob said.
“I’m fine.” This came out as a throaty whisper that Jacob strained to hear.
Jacob reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Take this. Get a hot meal to calm your nerves.”
The boy looked at the offer warily, but his eyes told the real truth—that a hot meal was much needed.
Jacob waved the coin in the air. “Go ahead. Take it.”
The boy snatched the coin quickly and pocketed it even faster. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“You’re sure you’re unhurt?”
He nodded and then ran away. For a moment, Jacob stood in the middle of the street, splashed by the passing carriages and carts, and watched the boy weave in and out of the crowd until he disappeared down a side alley.
The doorman at Brooks gave Jacob’s muddied appearance an odd look but let him in anyway.
He found his friend, Armbruster, sitting in his usual nook, readingThe Times. Other London newssheets were stacked neatly beside him.
Armbruster lowered the paper enough to eye Jacob’s wet and muddy trousers. “What happened to you?”
“Just another day saving lost boys from death by horse’s hooves.”
His friend grunted and folded the paper to place it on the table between them. Jacob read the headline and shook his head at the words meant to incite fear. “How many bodies has this been?”
“Four. Another woman. The police are speculating she was a servant, but it’s hard to tell since she was found with no head nor hands.”
“Horrifyingly bizarre.”
The city was nearly in hysterics, although Jacob was hard-pressed to determine exactly which kind of hysterics. People were alternately horrorstruck and enthralled—locking their servants inside while devouring the newspapers for more sensationalized details. Preachers were screaming from the pulpits that the devil was at work, and women—especially women of the serving class—were afraid to go outside for fear of being the next victim.
