The Earl’s Bluestocking Bride (Unconventional Brides #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

London,

October 1820

Andrew Drake, the Earl of Longley, had outdone himself this time. He sat on his bed, admiring the necklace displayed in a box on his lap, the glittering facets of the rubies reflecting the candlelight back at him.

It was exquisite. The workmanship—faultless. The gems—flawless. The design—bold without being gaudy.

Florence would be delighted, and when his mistress was pleased, she rewarded him in all sorts of creative and delicious ways.

He traced his fingers around the edge of the largest ruby, set in silver and surrounded by smaller but no less perfect specimens, imagining how it would look around her pale, elegant neck. Perhaps she would allow him to strip her of everything but the necklace and—

A knock at the door interrupted his musings. He scowled. His servants knew better than to interrupt him during the nights he spent with Florence. Especially when he was supposed to be leaving soon, and she’d pout and sulk if he was late.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“A Mr. Harold Fisher is in the drawing room, my lord,” the butler, Boden, called through the bedroom door. “He wishes to speak with you.”

Andrew frowned. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t quite recall where from. He carefully set the necklace down, then paced to the door and opened it. Boden, a gray-haired man of indeterminate age, straightened his shoulders, instinctively standing taller while simultaneously dipping his chin.

“Apologies, my lord. He would not be deterred,” he said.

Andrew waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind that. You’re just doing your job. Did Mr. Fisher tell you what his business is?”

“No, my lord. But he gave me his card. Would you care to see it?”

“Yes, please, Boden.”

Boden extracted a plain white calling card from his front pocket and offered it to Andrew, who accepted the card and read the details printed neatly in the center.

Harold Fisher, Esq.

Smith & Fisher Co.

“Ah. He is Albert Smith’s business partner. Unusual for him to call on me.” With a sigh, he pocketed the card. “Please inform Mr. Fisher that I will be with him soon.”

Boden bowed. “Very good, my lord.”

Andrew rolled his eyes as the butler turned away. No matter how many times he told Boden he didn’t have to refer to him as “my lord” every single time he spoke, there was no stopping the man. It wasn’t sufficient to show his respect once or twice in a conversation—he must do so incessantly.

Curious what had brought his man of business’s partner to Drake House, Andrew strode back to the bed, where he folded silk around the necklace, placed it in its box, and closed the lid. He checked his attire in a full-length mirror beside the wardrobe and straightened his cravat. That done, he headed downstairs.

Boden had left Mr. Fisher in the blue drawing room. As Andrew approached, he spotted the small, neatly turned-out man standing stiffly in front of an empty writing desk, his hands folded over his lower abdomen.

“Good evening,” Andrew said as he entered. He offered Mr. Fisher his hand, and they shook briskly. “I understand you wish to speak with me.”

Mr. Fisher’s small brown eyes darted left and right. “I’m not sure that ‘wish’ is the correct term, my lord. It’s more that I must speak with you regarding an urgent matter.”

Andrew’s eyebrows drew together as he studied the other man. Sweat was beaded at Mr. Fisher’s hairline, and he was quite pale.

“Do you feel well?” he asked. “Would you like me to call for tea?”

Mr. Fisher shifted from one foot to the other, and a droplet of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Really, this was most unusual. The fire wasn’t lit, and the air in the drawing room was verging on cold.

“No, thank you.” Mr. Fisher adjusted the collar of his shirt, subtly tugging it out as if he were having difficulty breathing.

Andrew took a step back. “I say, man. Are you ill?”

“My only illness is of the heart and soul,” Mr. Fisher said mournfully.

Andrew glanced at the large grandfather clock ticking away the seconds in the corner. “I’m afraid I can’t dally long. I have an appointment to keep.”

Mr. Fisher’s throat bobbled. “This may take precedence, my lord.”

Andrew gestured impatiently. “Tell me. ”

How bad could it be? Perhaps Mr. Smith was ill, and his business partner had come to advise the earl that some of his holdings would need to be managed by someone else. Surely the man couldn’t have died. He was relatively young, and he was perfectly healthy the last time Andrew had seen him.

“I’m sorry to tell you that Albert Smith is gone.” Mr. Fisher pressed his palms together in supplication.

Andrew tilted his head to the side. “Gone where? For how long?”

“Erm… indefinitely, I suppose.”

Andrew rubbed his temples. “Please speak plainly.”

Mr. Fisher squeaked. “Mr. Smith disappeared several days ago, and no one has seen him since.”

Andrew’s breath caught. “Has anyone checked his home? He could have taken ill or been in an accident.”

Mr. Fisher shifted his weight again. “That’s the first thing I did when he failed to show up at the office for the second day in a row without sending word as to why. My assistant reported back that his house had been emptied of personal belongings. I verified this myself.”

“Did he move houses?” Because Andrew couldn’t think of any other explanation.

“Not within London.” Mr. Fisher inhaled deeply and visibly braced himself. “Upon further investigation, we discovered that Mr. Smith seems to have boarded a ship bound for Spain. He is fleeing the country.”

Andrew shook his head. That made no sense. “Why would he need to flee? Was he in debt?”

If possible, Mr. Fisher paled even more. “I asked myself those same questions. Apparently, my business partner has not been handling his client’s affairs as successfully as he portrayed.”

A sinking feeling settled in Andrew’s gut. Somehow, he knew that whatever Mr. Fisher was about to say, it wouldn’t be good.

“Go on,” he prompted.

Mr. Fisher wrung his hands. “It seems Albert invested heavily in a company that was attempting to build a smaller scale steam locomotive to be used for personal transportation. Unfortunately, the company has gone bankrupt and all the money he invested on behalf of our clients has been lost.”

The sinking sensation worsened. “I recall him mentioning that invention. He said it sounded promising. I believe some of my fortune was invested.”

Mr. Fisher wet his lips. “Yes, my lord. A substantial amount. More, I believe, than what you agreed to. He has been forging approvals for investments he considered worthy—presumably assuming that if they paid back well, no one would question him. But that isn’t all.”

“Dear God. What else? And how much more did he invest beyond what we discussed?” Had he lost enough money to feel the pinch? While his family had never been as wealthy as that of his close friend, the Duke of Ashford, was, they were rich enough that they’d never had to worry about their finances.

“A lot more.” His shoulders slumped, and he stared down at his hands. “And what was not lost, Mr. Smith appears to have taken.”

Andrew stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Fisher raised his chin. “I regret to inform you that the Drake fortune is almost completely gone. What was not lost to bad investment, Mr. Smith stole to fund his travel abroad. I can only assume that he intends to stay on the Continent for a long time and enjoy a lavish lifestyle.”

Andrew’s mouth fell open, but he snapped it shut again. His mind was whirring frantically, and he felt sick to his stomach. “How did this happen?”

Mr. Fisher backed up a step. “As I said, Mr. Smith was forging client approvals. He had a copy of your seal made and mimicked your signature. In this way, he entered into deals without your knowledge, invested more than he should have, shifted money to his own accounts, and sold off two of your unentailed properties.”

“He sold two of my properties,” Andrew sputtered. “That’s impossible!”

The backs of Mr. Fisher’s legs hit the desk. “I assure you, it’s not. When the investments started going downhill, he tried to fix the problem by selling Rosewill Cottage and the dower house that was formerly attached to the Longley Manor estate.”

Andrew’s heart thudded rapidly. This was unbelievable. It couldn’t be real.

Ten minutes ago, he’d been admiring the finest jewels money could buy, and now he was being told he was almost broke. Not only that, but his former man of business had sold off the homes he’d set aside for his mother and sister in the event he passed away unexpectedly and left them without protection.

“Are you perfectly serious?” he asked quietly.

Mr. Fisher ducked his head. “I fear so, my lord. You have my utmost apologies. I had no idea what Albert was doing until it was already too late. I understand, of course, if you wish to employ another firm to manage your estate, and I can only pray that you do not see fit to punish me for my partner’s actions.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Andrew drew in a deep breath and tried to calm himself. This was all happening so quickly. He needed time to think.

“I have employed an investigator to track down Mr. Smith,” Mr. Fisher continued. “There is a chance that some of your fortune can be reclaimed. However, until we have returned him to England, we cannot be sure exactly how much is in his possession.”

“Indeed, he must be found,” Andrew muttered. “How much money, exactly, do we have left?”

Mr. Fisher bit his lip. “I could not tell you from memory, but we have the records at our office if you wish to review them. Unfortunately, you are not the only one of Albert’s former clients I have had to visit today, although you are most assuredly the one who has suffered the greatest losses.”

Andrew trudged to a chaise positioned against the wall and dropped onto it, wishing it were just a little softer. “I appreciate you bringing me this news, even if it is unwanted. I’ll be in touch.” Once he’d time to fully comprehend the magnitude of what had happened. “Please see yourself out.”

Mr. Fisher bowed deeply. “My most sincere apologies. I assure you, we are doing all that we can to track my erstwhile business partner and to protect what you have left.”

He bustled out before Andrew could reply, perhaps sensing that he may not like whatever he had to say.

“My lord?”

Andrew glanced up. Boden stood in the doorway, his posture impeccable, his expression giving no indication of whether he’d overheard their conversation.

“Please summon the dowager countess, and have Mrs. Baker bring us tea and biscuits.”

Boden nodded and swept out, leaving Andrew alone in the silence. He dropped his face into his hands. He was torn between a desperate desire to know exactly how bad the situation was and the urge to bury his head in the sand for as long as possible.

Unfortunately, being the earl meant he couldn’t afford to remain in the dark. His mother and sister were relying on him to provide for them, as were the dozens of servants employed by the Drake family across their holdings.

He couldn’t let them down.

He gazed blankly at the wall, listening closely for footsteps in the corridor. The patterned wallpaper, in shades of navy and pale blue, swam before his eyes. The ornate gold trim, so carefully crafted, blurred into indistinguishable squiggles and masses.

“Andrew? What on earth is wrong?”

Pulling himself together, he looked toward the doorway, where the dowager countess, Lady Drake, stood with a furrowed brow and a curious slant to her mouth.

“I’m afraid I’ve just received bad news,” he said, hearing himself as if from a distance.

Lady Drake moved farther into the room, her skirts—a similar shade to the wall—swishing around her ankles. “Has there been a death?”

“No.” Although, in a way, this felt similar. He couldn’t believe he’d been careless enough to lose everything. He wasn’t the only one who would pay the price for this. His mother had trusted him to care for her. How could he do that if he had very little to his name?

“Then what?” She gave a little laugh. “You’re worrying me.”

He patted the chaise beside him. “Sit, Mother.”

She sat, her head held high despite the gray-streaked auburn hair piled atop it. Her hazel eyes gleamed, but the corners of her mouth were tight. “What is it?”

He took her hand, wishing with everything he had that he could wake up and discover this had all been an awful dream. He waited a few seconds before deciding that simply wasn’t going to happen.

“Mr. Smith, my man of business, fraudulently invested our money in a company that has gone bankrupt.”

“Oh no!” Her hand flew to her mouth.

Andrew gestured for her to wait. “That which he has not lost, he has, apparently absconded with—including the proceeds of the sale of both Rosewill Cottage and the dower house.”

She lowered her hand, obviously confused. “I didn’t know we had sold them. ”

His nostrils flared, but he reined in his temper. “Nor did I.”

“Oh.” She gazed blindly around, not taking anything in. “Oh.”

She stood and paced the length of the room, her skirt fluttering around her slender frame as she muttered under her breath, a frantic edge to her usually composed demeanor.

“Mr. Smith’s business partner is attempting to have him apprehended and returned to London. Hopefully, we may reclaim some of our lost fortune from him. However, I do not think we can rely on that.”

If Mr. Smith had known things were going downhill, it seemed likely he’d have taken steps to ensure he was able to disappear once he left the city. He must know that the only way he would get away with defrauding one of the most prominent members of society was by becoming a ghost.

Lady Drake paused in her pacing. “How dire is the situation?”

He rested his forearms on his thighs. “We will know tomorrow. But from the sounds of it, we can’t expect much.”

“It isn’t right.” She grabbed fistfuls of her skirt and clenched and unclenched her hands. “He can’t get away with this.”

“Hopefully, he doesn’t.” Andrew rose to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. “In the meantime, we need to decide what to do if we don’t get any of our money back.”

The sensible thing would be to start releasing members of staff from their contracts, but most of their servants had worked for the Drakes for years, if not decades. He didn’t want to be responsible for causing them any hardship—especially not because of his own laziness.

Perhaps if he’d paid more attention and been more actively engaged with their investments and finances, this wouldn’t have happened. He’d been too blasé, believing them safe because of all the generations of wealthy Drakes who’d come before them.

“Is that a possibility?” the dowager asked, one of her hands subconsciously smoothing over her simple chignon. “That we will not see anything he has taken?”

Andrew pressed his lips together and struggled not to show how scared he was. “We must prepare for the worst.”

“Very well.” She nodded to herself and tapped her index finger against her pointed chin. “Lord, it is difficult to think during such stressful times. I suppose, if we need to replenish the coffers, that the fastest and most obvious way to gain access to money is through marriage.”

He gasped. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that we marry off Kate? She’s far too young.”

Lady Drake tsked. “Of course not.” She gave him a pointed look. “Even if Kate were of an age to marry, she would require a dowry, which it seems we do not have. You, however, do not require a dowry, and I know for a fact that there are many girls from wealthy families who would happily become the next Countess of Longley.”

Dear God.

She wanted him to marry?

He knew he would have to do so at some point, if only to secure an heir for the next generation. He had nothing against the idea of taking a wife, but he always believed that when he did so, it would be because a particular lady had caught his interest, rather than as a sacrifice on the altar of matrimony to restore his family’s fortune.

He strode out of the room, down the corridor, and pushed open his office door. Without looking around, he went straight to the cabinet, pulled out a bottle of his favorite brandy, and poured a healthy portion into a glass. He tossed it back, wincing as the alcohol burned down his throat, then poured himself another.

Hell, if he were broke, this bottle may be the last one he would be able to enjoy until they’d solved their financial dilemma.

He sipped the brandy this time, then, after a brief hesitation, poured a sherry for his mother and carried both glasses back to the drawing room. He passed hers over. She accepted it without comment and drained the glass almost as quickly as he had.

“There must be another way,” he said, his chest tight with panic.

“We can think on it,” the dowager said, eyeing her empty glass with disapproval. “But I believe marrying an heiress with a substantial dowry is the most straightforward way to obtain more money. I know you don’t wish to marry for such crass reasons, but you can’t rule it out yet. Just consider it. Perhaps one of the heiresses will appeal to you.”

He huffed. “That would be convenient.”

However, it seemed unlikely. Even if he found an heiress he was attracted to, how could he justify marrying her under false pretenses?

“Marriages of convenience are not uncommon among the ton,” his mother murmured, as if privy to his thoughts.

“Usually, both parties are aware of what they are participating in when that occurs,” he replied. “I, for one, would rather the ton not know of our changed fortune. Do you feel differently?”

Lady Drake scrunched her nose, and after a long hesitation, she shook her head. “No.”

The clock ticked over the hour, and Andrew jolted, recalling his scheduled rendezvous with Florence.

Damn it, he wouldn’t be able to continue to keep his mistress in the fashion to which she was accustomed. Depending on the state of the ledgers when he reviewed them tomorrow, there was a possibility he could still afford to provide for her, but it would require a significant reduction in her circumstances.

Florence wouldn’t tolerate that. She’d lived lavishly for most of her life—first as the bastard daughter of a marquess and a widowed viscountess, and later, after their deaths, as one of the most sought-after companions for gentlemen of the ton.

She wouldn’t respond well to being offered less. It would be better to free her to seek other protection. He ought to give her the necklace as a parting gift, but considering he didn’t know his family’s financial standing and the necklace was worth a small fortune, he simply couldn’t justify doing so.

Perhaps he could sell the necklace. The jeweler he’d bought it from may be willing to buy it back, or else he could pawn it—although if he liquidated it that way, he was certain he’d receive far less than what it was worth.

“All right.” He set his glass on a table. “Tomorrow, I will confirm how grave the damage to our financial position is. If we need money immediately, there are a few high-value items we can sell. Longer term, I will consider the possibility of marriage while we wait to hear whether Mr. Smith is apprehended and, if so, how much—if any—of our stolen money we can expect to be returned.”

The dowager nodded. “I will compile a list of potential brides with large dowries.”

He shot her a look. “No schoolroom chits.”

She scoffed. “As if I would match you with a child. Have faith in me, Andrew.”

He tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “I always do.” He wiped his moist palms on his trousers. Time to face down a very unhappy Florence. “There is something I must do. I’ll be home later.”

She tapped her cheek, and he dutifully kissed it.

“We will get through this,” she murmured.

God, he hoped so.

He left the drawing room and called for one of his more discreet carriages. It met him out the front of the house, its simple black panels and white doors giving away nothing of who the carriage belonged to. Perfect for a clandestine meeting.

A footman opened the door, and Andrew climbed inside. He gazed through the window as the carriage began to bump across the cobblestone driving circle and back out onto the street.

The evening was completely dark except for the slight illumination cast by oil lamps. The lamps were fewer and farther between as they neared the edge of Mayfair and pulled onto a side street.

Florence resided on the second floor of a tidy house on a quiet residential street generally occupied by those on the fringes of the ton. His driver stopped outside, and Andrew waited until the footman opened the door before stepping down.

“Please wait here,” he told the driver. “I won’t be long.”

The man’s expression gave nothing away. “Yes, my lord.”

Andrew unlocked the front door—he had a key because he paid Florence’s rent—and took the stairs to the second floor. He knocked on the muddy green door and waited. It took a good minute to hear movement inside.

The door opened, and Florence’s stunning face appeared in the gap, her high cheekbones emphasized by the play of shadows across her skin. Her full lips formed a pout, and her dark blue eyes narrowed.

“You’re late,” she said tartly. “I’m not sure that I should let you in.”

He winced. “I have a good reason.”

She arched an eyebrow in a way that clearly said she doubted his explanation would be sufficient. “Do tell.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth. “May I come in? ”

She cocked her head. “That depends on whether I find your excuse to be reasonable.”

All right. He supposed he was doing this right then and there.

“Unfortunately, I received the news today that my man of business defrauded me and ran off with my remaining fortune, bound for Spain.” He spoke quietly so as not to be overheard by nosy neighbors. “As you’ll understand, we must tighten our purse strings.”

She opened the door wider and crossed her arms. “Do not tell me that you intend to abandon me.”

His stomach dropped. “It’s not like that. I can pay for your lodgings for another month. That gives you plenty of time to seek an alternative arrangement. I know you have many admirers.”

She rolled her eyes. “I do not care about other admirers. I want you, my lord.” She swayed closer, wrapping her arms around his neck, and the floral scent of her perfume washed over him. “I’m not finished with you yet. I have confidence we can come to an agreement.”

Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from her. “I’m afraid not.” His mother and sister must come first. “There is a possibility I will have to marry.”

“You intend to become a fortune hunter?” She sounded horrified.

“If I must.” From her obvious distaste, he assumed that would be the end of the matter, but she pressed closer to him again.

“You’ll be back.” Her fingers trailed down the side of his face. “I don’t mind if you spend some naive debutante’s dowry on me. In fact, nothing would thrill me more.”