Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress (The Husband Hunters Club 5)

Beth maneuvered the conversation on to some of the other guests and Averil mentioned the baroness.

“Horrible woman, I don’t know why Doctor Simmons cozies up to her as he does,” Beth said.

“Cozies up to her?” Averil repeated. “You make it sound as if he and she . . . as if . . .” Her eyes grew big.

Beth’s gaze avoided hers. “There has been a great deal of gossip, my dear.”

“But she is so old!”

“You will find, Averil, that necessity makes strange bedfellows.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, now I’ve made it worse, haven’t I? Tell me about General Bunnington instead.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong,” Averil said primly, before doing as she asked.

When Beth had gone to bed, Averil lay thinking in the darkness, going over matters in her head. Beth was worried that the earl would ruin her reputation and that he was after her fortune, that he was using her, but Averil rather thought the shoe was on the other foot. She was in no danger from Lord Southbrook. It was she who was using him, to help her find Rose, and she was willing to risk a great deal to achieve her aim.

Beth couldn’t sleep either.

She was very much aware that Averil found the earl of Southbrook exciting. He was unlike anyone else of her acquaintance, and quite how quickly he had inveigled his way into her life, Beth found unnerving to say the least. She hadn’t told Averil everything about the earl’s scandalous past. She didn’t know everything, but she knew enough. He had run off with a woman far beneath him in status, but not before he had gotten her with child. Then she’d died in circumstances that were, if not suspicious, then certainly odd.

Had the earl, wishing his wife dead, gone one step further?

Elizabeth Harmon, known all her life as Beth, knew something of life—she was no sheltered flower. The eldest daughter of a pastor, she had several younger sisters and a mother who, while perfectly adequate at producing children, was never very interested in them afterward. Beth took on motherly duties from the age of six, and by the time she was ten years old, the nanny was dismissed and Beth found herself a full-time carer of the children.

She expected to look after her parents when her sisters left home—that was what happened to capable unmarried daughters—but she secretly dreamed that perhaps one day she’d have enough money to buy a little cottage in a little village somewhere and be herself.

Whatever “herself” was, she’d never really had the chance to find out.

Suddenly, when her youngest sister was seventeen and already engaged, their father was killed by a falling tree while riding to see a parishioner during a storm. Instead of being needed to look after aging parents, Beth found herself pushed out of the nest. Much to her surprise, her mother decided to go to live with her middle daughter, who had just given birth to twin boys and was asking for her mother’s help. Beth had no idea how her mother would be of any help, but since the family home must go to the new pastor, suddenly she was in the position of being without anyone dependent upon her and without a home.

It was the family lawyer who suggested it. A friend of his in London knew of the opening—a young girl whose father had died needed a full-time carer and nanny, and later on a companion. Beth seemed eminently suitable, and jumped at the chance to live in London. Looking after one child would be a simple matter after all of those sisters!

What she wasn’t expecting was to love that child from the moment she saw her—four-year-old Averil, with her thick blond hair and her anxious gray eyes. They had been together now for sixteen years. Averil had grown into a fine young woman, and Beth had time for herself, to visit plays a

nd operas and museums. All in all, Beth had had a wonderful second chance at life. But just recently she’d begun to wonder once more what would become of her when Averil no longer needed her.

There was marriage, of course, and she wasn’t too old to find a nice widower somewhere. Beth knew she was no great beauty. Slight of build, with hair a mousy brown and eyes to match, she wasn’t much to look at really, and yet her sweet nature drew gentlemen to her. Beth knew that Averil would like to match her with Dr. Simmons, but she was going to have to disappoint her. Gareth Simmons did not appeal to her in the least.

The truth was, she had no desire to be anyone’s wife. The little cottage in the little village no longer held much appeal either; she knew she’d miss her busy life in London too much. Her future was a niggling concern that came to her in the middle of the night, and one she’d so far managed to dismiss. But when Averil turned twenty-one it was quite likely she would want her independence from a companion, and certainly if she were to marry then she would no longer need Beth.

In the meantime she had enough to worry about, with Lord Southbrook’s pursuit of Averil. Despite Averil’s instant rejection of the idea, that was what it looked like to her. Wrangling an invitation to the baroness’s champagne supper? Averil being thrust into his company by Gareth Simmons, who should have more sense?

Beth decided that the darkly fascinating Lord Southbrook needed to be watched. Watched very closely indeed.

Bloomsbury was asleep, and within the town house of Baroness Sessington, Gareth was making his way toward his room. He and the baroness had returned home hours ago, but he had reports to write. There was a great deal of paperwork justifying his expenditure on the Home for Distressed Women. He didn’t normally sit up till all hours with bookwork but it had occurred to him that the earl of Southbrook—or more likely his bankers—might wish to see that the home’s finances were in order.

There was also the question of Jackson. Gareth had met Jackson some years ago, when he was first trying to get his Home for Distressed Woman up and running. Jackson worked for him, off and on, performing tasks that Gareth himself was too squeamish to perform. The man went deep into the worst slums of the East End, seeking out girls in need, and often informing Gareth if they were genuine or not. So many of them were not. They wanted nothing more than to eat their heads off and then make a run for it. Jackson knew this world, he knew these women, and for his help and advice Gareth paid him a large retainer.

Not everyone would understand and it was not something he wanted appearing in the books.

As for what else Jackson did, when he wasn’t working for Gareth, he didn’t want to know. As he told himself, the man was a necessary evil and by employing him he shouldn’t feel he was doing anything wrong. Sometimes one had to get one’s hands dirty—or at least Jackson had to get his hands dirty—in order to sort out those who genuinely needed help from those who were quite content to loll in filth and depravity.

On the landing the clock struck the hour, making Gareth jump, and at the same time a voice called out his name.

Gareth cursed under his breath. Speaking of necessary evils! He listened again, thinking that perhaps the baroness was talking in her sleep . . .? But no, there she was again, and louder this time. This had only begun to occur lately and Gareth didn’t know quite what to do about it. He’d thought of moving out of the Bloomsbury house, but where would he go? And there was so much good work still to be done. So many women needing his help. Baroness Sessington had been so generous in her support of his projects.

With a deep sigh, Gareth turned around and headed toward his patroness’s bedchamber.

“Gareth, where are you?” the baroness called again, and Gareth could see her now, standing in the doorway to her bedchamber. With her wig askew over her sparse gray hair and her bed robe clutched to her skinny chest, she looked so much older.