The Earl's Secret Read online

  “Are you well, Miss Fairchild?”

  Her lack of control brought him closer and Anna found herself tugged into the shadows where he stood. He leaned his head down, and for a moment she thought he might try to kiss her.

  She hoped.

  She prayed.

  She tried to clear her mind of whatever bewitching spell he was placing on her.

  “If you are to swoon, Miss Fairchild, let it be over something pleasant like this, and not over that boring old Lord Treybourne.”

  She began to laugh, but his kiss covered the sound of it. He touched his lips to hers softly at first and then with a bit more persistence. He tasted of something mint. Then, as quickly as he had begun, Mr. David Archer stepped away.

  Anna could form no words to speak after that experience. She was fully aware that his behavior had been too forward and that she should reprimand him. The problem was that in her heart of hearts she would welcome his mouth on hers again.

  And again.

  The Earl’s Secret

  Harlequin® Historical #831

  Praise for Terri Brisbin

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  THE EARL’S SECRET

  TERRI BRISBIN

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and TERRI BRISBIN

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  The Earl’s Secret #831

  The idea for this story came about while I was listening to a panel of librarians at a Romance Writers of America conference in Denver a few years ago. They painted such a vivid picture of the early history of book reviews that I thought—hmmm, there’s a story here. Not long after that, while watching some old romantic comedies that involved secret identities, hidden agendas and love, I began to plan out that story.

  My thanks to John Charles, Shelley Mosely and Kristin Ramsdell for their inspiration for this story and for their ongoing support of the romance genre and its authors.

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  London, England

  “Bloody hell!”

  The piles of papers from his various business interests that lay on his mahogany desk scattered across the surface and onto the floor as he tossed down the latest copy of the Scottish Monthly Gazette. An uncommon anger built within him and he could not resist picking the rag back up for just one more glance. Surely, he had misread the editorial. Surely, the writer had not used his name. Surely not.

  Yet, upon examination, David Lansdale saw that his ire was in part well-deserved, for there on the second page, as part of the Gazette’s editorial essay, was not only his title, Earl of Treybourne, but also spurious remarks against the arguments made in his own essay the month before in the respectable Whiteleaf’s Review.

  “My lord?”

  David looked up to see his butler at the door of his study.

  “I did not want to be disturbed, Berkley.”

  “I understand, my lord,” Berkley replied with a deferential bow, “but Lord Ellerton has come calling and shows no signs of being deterred in speaking to you.”

  He has most likely seen this, he said under his breath as he glanced at the newest issue of the Gazette. And, no matter how much his friend tried to offer commiseration, it always sounded like gloating.

  “Then you must be a stronger deterrent, Berkley. I do not wish visitors at this time.” Allowing his displeasure to show, he reiterated, “No visitors.”

  Berkley, the consummate butler, approached the mess of papers David had made of his desk and the surrounding area of floor, and bent to pick them up.

  “Leave them, Berkley. It is more important that you keep everyone out….”

  With a nod, Berkley left and quiet descended for a few moments as David gathered the strewn papers and put them on the desk. David turned his attention to the confusion of paperwork and began sorting it back into the neat piles it’d been in just moments ago. Lord Anthony Ellerton would be more pest than pestilence, but his company was simply not welcome at this moment. David would apologize later for the brush-off, later when he had handled this mess.

  And after he prepared to face his father’s wrath over this attack.

  His stomach gripped as he thought about his father’s reaction. The Marquess of Dursby was a dour, humorless man at best. He could only hope the marquess was in better spirits when he opened the copy. Or that he avoided reading the Whig-supporting publication completely. Now that was a thought. If his father kept to his regular Thursday schedule, he would most likely skip dinner at his club for a quiet night at home.

  David sat down at his desk and placed the object of his displeasure in the drawer so he did not have to face it straight on. At least not until he had a plan to answer the questions and comments in A. J. Goodfellow’s newest essay. He leaned over and held his head in his hands, knowing it was much too early in the morning for such a disastrous feeling.

  The sounds of another arrival stopped him before he could wallow much longer. Heels clicking across the wood of the entryway coming closer to his study’s door grabbed his attention. That kind of fuss, the kind of attention his staff was giving to whomever approached his door, could mean only one thing and it was not that Ellerton had successfully pressed his case for admission. David prayed in the moment before the door opened.

  His prayer was not answered.

  “The Marquess of Dursby,” Berkley called out as he stepped aside and allowed David’s father to enter. With a bow, he pulled the door closed and a sense of impending doom spread through the room.

  “Father,” he said, standing at once and bowing. “I am surprised to see you this early in the day.”

  His father simply nodded
, not deigning to answer the question implicit in his greeting. The door closed quietly; Berkley at his post.

  “Would you care for something to eat or drink, sir?”

  “I do not waste my time on such things when the fate of the nation is on the line.”

  “I would not say it is as grim as that, sir.”

  “And that, Treybourne, is most of your problem. The responsibility granted to you—”

  “Forced on me, rather,” David interrupted. In private he could admit that being the spokesman for the Tory party’s position in this war of words had not been his choice.

  He looked at the man who fathered him and marveled that in spite of their close resemblance in appearance—same brown hair cut shorter than current style would dictate, same chiseled angles in their faces, same pale blue eyes ringed in midnight blue—their personalities and approach to honor and family were completely different. And when serving as the target of his father’s attempts to intimidate, he thanked the heavens above for the differences.

  “A nobleman honors his word.” The words were more demand than statement, more insult than declaration. The Marquess of Dursby did not look lightly on shirking one’s duties, especially when the family honor was involved.

  “And I will carry out what I have agreed to do, sir.”

  David clenched his jaw and waited for his father’s displeasure to be demonstrated. Never a man to waste time, the marquess seized the topic.

  “You should have seen this rebuttal coming, Treybourne. Anyone with a modicum of education or experience in the oratory and debating arts would have known.”

  Crossing his arms, David stared off into the corner of his study while his father continued in his well-controlled diatribe over the latest Whigs’ arguments and the insults leveled at the Tories through him.

  “You are not paying attention, Treybourne, another of your weaknesses. How do you expect to quash this opponent and make it clear that his party is seeking that which will undermine the good of the nation?”

  David did not answer immediately, for he was cognizant that his father would point out another fault of his—that of taking action without adequate thought and planning. Since no amount of arguments or evidence could sway the marquess once he adopted an opinion or position, David saved his efforts for when it would matter.

  “What answer would you like from me, sir? If you do not feel that I can accomplish your aims, then give this honor to someone else in whom you have confidence.”

  This was not new ground for them. Every time his father berated him over this role as party spokesman, he asked to be relieved of it.

  In truth, he only did it for the money it brought to him. And for what he could do with those funds. Activities that would have his father in palpitations if he knew the extent of them. Projects which were too important to let this animosity between father and son interfere.

  “I will continue to honor our arrangement as long as you do—ten thousand pounds per annum for your own use, unquestioned, though I do wonder over what sordid uses they may be, in return for you using your persuasive abilities to convince those in Commons and in Lords who are in thrall to the Whigs of the error of their ways.”

  David swallowed deeply when he thought of losing the funds. He would not control the family’s strong and still growing fortunes until he ascended to the marquessate, at his father’s death, so he was still beholden to his father’s whims and wishes and demands.

  If there were some other way, he would have gone it long ago, but writing various essays and giving speeches as an MP from one of the Dursby pocket boroughs was the easiest legal way to get the blunt he needed.

  “I usually take a day or two to mull over the newest article before writing my own, sir,” he offered as he turned back and met his father’s steely gaze.

  “Excellent,” Dursby said. “Remember you can always call on my man Garwood if you need assistance.”

  He would never use Garwood for anything. “My thanks, sir.”

  Then, with but a curt nod to warn that his visit was at an end, the marquess turned and walked to the door. He cleared his throat and waited for Berkley to open it for him, and then the sound of his heels on the floor of the entryway told David of his hasty departure.

  The entire encounter took less than ten minutes of his time, but he felt as though countless years had passed since his father’s arrival. David relented on his own practice of avoiding spirits before midday and sought the decanter of brandy in the cabinet. Another regrettable lapse in control, but for now, David decided to fortify himself before his next battle…with the Scottish essayist known as A. J. Goodfellow.

  A few hours later, when Berkley dared to encroach into the study to remind him of his dinner and evening engagements, David felt no closer to a suitable retort to the written assault contained in the magazine. Leaning back in his leather chair and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he considered sending his regrets to Lord and Lady Appleton even at this late hour.

  No, the ball this evening would be attended by those who would know not to mention the essay in polite company. Conversation would be filled with talk of horses, soirees and the latest on-dits of acceptable gossip and not the weightier topics of politics and economics. Though he knew he was the subject of much discussion among the best of English society, David also realized it was more about his income per annum and the titles he would assume at his father’s death than the arguments in his essays.

  Women controlled the ballrooms and gatherings of society and their interest was nothing so complicated as the latest bill in the Commons or Lords. Titles, wealth and lands were the yardstick of judgment and, with enough of those, most or all of a man’s foibles could be overlooked. And he had enough of all of those.

  So, as Earl of Treybourne, he would take refuge there for the night. Indeed, for once, he preferred the questionable and possibly foolhardy adventures in the ton’s social schedule to facing an adversary more dangerous than any he’d faced before. That self-knowledge worried him more than his father’s appearance here before eleven in the morning.

  Chapter Two

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Anna Fairchild walked briskly over the Water of Leith from Stockbridge toward the New Town. Anxious to get to the offices of the Scottish Monthly Gazette, she barely spent a moment returning the greetings of those familiar faces she passed as she made her way through the fashionable area toward Frederick Street. There would be time to stop and chat on another day, but this one was special. This one could determine her success or failure in her endeavors.

  This was the morning after the latest issue had been delivered to households and news sellers all over Edinburgh and London. By now, A. J. Goodfellow’s nemesis, Lord Treybourne, had read the answers to his essay and was probably still reeling over it. This was the first time that Goodfellow took the earl on directly and Anna could not wait to see the results. It was Nathaniel’s reactions that she was not so certain about.

  Her usual journey of about thirty minutes from the home she shared with her sister and her aunt near the newly built Ann Street houses to the offices on the corner of George and Frederick Streets seemed to rush by, much evidenced by her out-of-breath condition upon arrival at the door. Anna looked around the office and found Nathaniel speaking to his secretary. Taking a moment to remove her pelisse and bonnet and to put her appearance back to rights, she smoothed several strands of hair loosened by her brisk pace and the city winds back into place in the rather severe bun at the nape of her neck.

  Anna nodded to the two clerks working busily at their desk, opening and sorting the piles of letters already arriving at the office. She presumptuously blamed part of the amount of letters on the contents of yesterday’s issue and her decision to publish it, Nathaniel’s objections notwithstanding.

  “I can see the pride in your gaze, Anna.” Nathaniel stood by her side near the doorway.

  “Is it unseemly then?” she asked, trying to resist the urge to gloat
a bit over the success of their gamble.

  “A near thing.”

  “We wanted to gain more attention for the magazine and, by the looks of that—” she pointed to Messrs. Lesher and Wagner at their work “—it’s been successful.”

  “But at what cost?” He let out a sigh. “I have just this morning received an ‘invitation’ to speak to several of the Whig leaders about the latest essay.”

  “I would think that you would be pleased by that, Nathaniel. Part of this plan was for you to gain some notice and begin to move toward election to Commons. Surely, this will build your reputation and possibly even gain you a patron toward that end.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps? More likely you will find yourself engaged in a debate on the floor of the Commons with the target of that essay.”

  “Trey?” he asked.

  “Trey?” she echoed now recognizing the familiarity that he’d never exposed to her before.

  “We attended Eton and Oxford together. I thought I had mentioned it to you when we started this endeavor.”

  Anna forced the first three thoughts, ones not appropriate for mixed company and certainly not from a woman of gentle birth, back into her mind and spoke her fourth one. “Perchance you should have made your prior acquaintance clearer to me a bit earlier than this moment?”

  Her tone drew the attention of the clerks, Nathaniel’s secretary and several delivery men and visitors to the office. Anna closed her mouth and lowered her eyes modestly. Now was not the time to jeopardize all that they worked so hard to accomplish. Nathaniel nodded toward his office. She walked inside, and waited for him to follow her in and close the door behind them.