Page 3 of An Unwilling Earl
He might not desire the albatross of a title, but he would do right by it. People depended on him, after all.
After the solicitor left, Jacob sat in his office, contemplating the change that his very comfortable life was about to undergo. The idea of the challenge excited him, but the thought of giving up his career saddened him. He knew enough to know that an earl could not also engage inwork.
His housekeeper, assistant, and general person-who-took-care-of-him-and-his-house entered the front parlor that he had converted into his office.
She wrung the dust cloth in her hands, her white cap askew, wisps of wiry red hair poking out of the sides. Her cheeks were plump and continuously rosy, her nose pert, her eyes small, but always twinkling. She was the bane of his existence and the only person who held his life together.
For some reason, Agatha Smith loved Jacob like a mother loved a son. He’d never understood why, but he relished her affection.
“There’s a lady here to see you,” she said. “I tried to push her off, but she was having none of it. Said she would wait until you were available.”
Jacob closed his eyes and rubbed them with the pads of his thumbs. “I don’t recall having an appointment with a lady.” He really needed a secretary, a man of business, or someone who would organize his life a little better than he did.
Then he remembered that he wouldn’t be a solicitor for much longer and a secretary was not needed. Or rather a secretary like that. Damn, but he would need someone to run his life now that he was an earl. Isn’t that how it was done?
“I tried to tell her she needed to make an appointment, but she said this was an emergency.”
Jacob dropped his hands and looked up at Mrs. Smith, who was still wringing the cloth and looking anxious.
“I don’t do emergencies.”
Jacob Baker was a solicitor, but not the kind who wrote up wills and handled estates. He worked for the barristers, researching cases, interviewing witnesses, tracking people down when needed. He was a quiet man, who lived on a quiet street, in a quiet part of London, who received great satisfaction in working behind the scenes of the city’s courtrooms.
“Send her in, but don’t bring tea. I don’t want her staying too long. I’ll hear her story, send her on her way, and be done with it.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
The first time she’d called him “my lord” he had snapped at her and she had cried, and he’d felt like a heel. He could tell she was proud to be working for an earl now. It was so strange that “sir” had suited him just fine four days ago.
Jacob stood to button his coat, attempting to appear presentable. He normally did not have people come to him. He was the one who tracked people down. So he was interested to see what this woman wanted.
She entered, tall and gaunt, her stiff black skirts creating a rustling sound that reminded him of autumn’s dead leaves. Her face was long and thin, her chin pointed, her eyes cold, dark, and assessing. There was no warmth to her gaze, no smile on her lips.
“Mr. Baker, thank you for taking the time to see me on such short notice.”
Jacob indicated the chair in front of his desk, and the woman rearranged her skirts to sit. As he sat, she took a swift glance around his office, quickly weighing and judging her surroundings, her lips turned down in what Jacob thought was probably perpetual disapproval.
His home, like his life, was simple. The office walls were lined with law books. A fire burned in the grate, chasing away the chill of the rainy day. The only furniture was his desk, the two chairs in front of his desk, and little else.
A few gas lamps lit the corners, spreading a warm glow into the room.
“Mrs. Smith said that your business was of an urgent nature?”
She pulled out a piece of thick paper from her reticule. “I am Dowager Lady Morris.” She paused and watched for his reaction, but Jacob came up blank. He’d never heard of a Lady Morris before. The woman, however, seemed to think that he should have.
“I am the guardian of Charlotte Morris, the late Lord Morris’s niece. His deceased brother’s daughter.”
Jacob folded his hands on the top of his desk and tried to appear as if he were interested in the convoluted family tree of the Morrises. The woman’s attitude and overall nature irked him. She clearly thought he should be impressed by her title, but titles had never impressed Jacob. A person’s nature was far more important than a hand-me-down title.
“Miss Morris has disappeared, and I need you to find her.”
Jacob raised his brows in surprise.
Lady Morris placed the paper on his desk and slid it toward him.
Jacob looked at the paper and was surprised to see a graphite drawing of a very beautiful woman. She was looking over a shoulder, hair tumbling down a back that wasn’t drawn in but rather assumed to be there. Loose, windblown curls were pulled away from her face and pinned in the back. Large eyes, full of laughter, looked at him. It was a rather good drawing with bold lines, swiftly sketched, giving just enough detail but not the full picture. Enough to let the viewer fill in the rest with his imagination.
“This is Miss Charlotte Morris?” he asked as he picked up the sketch. The eyes. Those eyes seemed so familiar.
