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THE EARL NEXT DOOR
The Bachelor Lords of London #1
Charis Michaels
Releasing March 1st, 2016
Avon Impulse
Charis Michaels makes her Avon
Impulse debut with the first book in her new historical romance series, The
Bachelor Lords of London...featuring a brooding earl and the American heiress
who charms him.
American heiress Piety Grey is on
the run. Suddenly in London and facing the renovation of a crumbling townhouse,
she’s determined to make a new life for herself—anything is better than returning
to New York City where a cruel mother and horrid betrothal await her. The last
thing she needs is a dark, tempting earl inciting her at every turn…
Trevor Rheese, the Earl of
Falcondale, isn’t interested in being a good neighbor. After fifteen years of
familial obligation, he’s finally free. But when the disarmingly beautiful
Piety bursts through his wall—and into his life—his newfound freedom is
threatened…even as his curiosity is piqued.
Once Piety’s family arrives in
London, Falcondale suddenly finds himself in the midst of a mock courtship to
protect the seductive woman who’s turned his world upside down. It’s all for
show—or at least it should be. But if Falcondale isn’t careful, he may find a
very real happily ever after with the woman of his dreams…
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Chapter One
No. 21 Henrietta Place
Mayfair, London, England
May 1809
Nothing of record ever happened in
Henrietta Place.
Carriages did not collide. Servants did not quarrel in the mews. No one among the street’s jowly widowers
remarried harlot second wives, and families with spirited young boys boarded
them in school at the earliest possible age.
No one tolerated stray dogs.
A calm sort of orderliness prevailed
on the street, gratifying residents and earning high praise from Londoners and
country visitors alike. It was a
domestic refuge. One of the last such
sanctuaries in all of London.
Certainly, the stately townhome
mansion at No. 21 was a sanctuary to Lady Frances Stroud, Marchioness
Frinfrock, who had been a proud and attentive resident since her marriage in
1768. With her own eyes, Lady Frinfrock
had seen the degradation and disquiet that had become prevalent in so many
London streets; noble-born men fraternizing with ballet dancers in The Strand;
week-long ramblings in Pall Mall. And
the spectacle that was Covent Garden? It
wasn’t to be borne.
What a comfort, then, that Lady
Frinfrock would always have Henrietta Place, where nothing of record ever
happened. Where she could live out her
final days in peace and tranquility.
“It looks to be fair for a second day,
my lady,” said Miss Breedlowe, the marchioness’ nurse, crossing to the alcove
window that overlooked the street.
“A fog will descend by luncheon,” said
the marchioness, frowning.
“If it pleases you, we could take a
short walk before then,” the nurse said.
“To Cavendish Square and back?
Spring weather is so unpredictable, we should take advantage of the sun
before it disappears again for a month.”
“Cavendish Square is not to be
tolerated,” said Lady Frinfrock.
Miss Breedlowe looked at her
hands. “Only so far as the corner and
back, then?”
“Not I,” said the marchioness, pained.
A sigh of disappointment followed, as
it always did. How unhappily accustomed
Lady Frinfrock had become to her nurse’s chronic sighing. It was obvious that Miss Breedlowe endeavored
to be patient, although, in her ladyship’s view, not nearly patient
enough. In return, the marchioness
rarely endeavored to be agreeable enough.
And why should a woman of her age and
station be prodded through an inane schedule of someone else’s design? To be
forced to engage in robust activities intended for no other purpose than to
move her bowels? If her inept solicitors
felt that her alleged infirmity warranted the nurse-maiding of sullen,
sigh-ridden Miss Breedlowe, then so be it.
They could cajole her to compensate and house the woman, but they could
not force her to abide her. Or to walk
to Cavendish Square when she hadn’t the slightest desire.
Miss Breedlowe cleared her
throat. “Perhaps tomorrow, then.”
Lady Frinfrock made a dismissive
sound. “If you wish to walk to Cavendish
Square, Miss Breedlowe, pray, do not let my disinterest detain you.”
The nurse turned from the window and
studied her. “I had hoped to discover an
activity that we might enjoy together.”
“A vain hope, I fear. I am a solitary soul, as the tyrants at Blinklowe,
Dinkle, and Tuft, would comprehend if their service to my estate extended
beyond calculating my worth in shillings and pounds and subtracting their
yearly portion…and then shackling me with you.”
To her credit, the nurse did not
blanch, but she also did not reply. The
marchioness looked away. If such frank
language could not elicit some measure of honesty from the woman, perhaps it
would scare her into not speaking at all.
Either would be preferable to her current trickle of disingenuous small
talk, not to mention the incessant sighing.
“I dare say your planters are the most
beautiful for several blocks, my lady,” Miss Breedlowe said after a
moment. “Do you direct your gardener in
their care?”
“They are not the loveliest on their
own accord, of that you can be sure.”
“How talented you are.”
The marchioness snorted. “You can but see what becomes of a garden
when left unattended, even for a week.
Just look at the deplorable state of Lord Falcondale’s flower boxes and
borders, if you can bear it. Such an
eyesore.”
“Oh, yes. The new earl.
Which house is it?”
“Number 24. There.
Directly across the street. It’s
been in his family for an age.” She
gently tapped the window with her cane.
“His late uncle, the previous Lord Falcondale, paid fastidious attention
to the upkeep of those planters. Tulips
and ivy mostly, this time of year.
Simple flowers, really. No effort
to maintain, but perfectly lovely if kept headed and weeded, which he did. Not to mention his staff swept the steps and
stoop several times a day, even in the damp.
But now his far-flung nephew has inherited, and I fear the entire
property will fall into disrepair.”
“Hmmm,” said Miss Breedlowe. “That would be a great shame.”
“Doubtless it seems like a small thing
to you, but this sort of irresponsibility can bring about the demise of order
and calm in a quiet street like our Henrietta Place. It doesn’t help that Number 22,” she gestured
again, “next door to Falcondale’s, has been unoccupied and for sale these last
five years. The house agents keep it up,
but there’s no substitute for the loving care of a devoted owner and staff.”
“Indeed.”
“To make matters worse, the new earl
is completely unresponsive to neighborly suggestion. I dispatched Samuel to speak to his gardener,
only to be told that the man has let him go, the careless sod.”
“Dismissed his gardener?”
“He sacked the whole lot. I’ve since learned that every servant has
been turned out. Now I ask you, how is a
house of that size to be maintained without staff?”
“I can only guess, my lady, but do
take care. It would not warrant your
becoming overset.” She ventured small
steps toward the marchioness.
“The demise of order and calm.” Lady
Frinfrock tsked, waving her away and rising slowly from her chair. She plodded to the window. “The demise of order and calm.”
As if on cue, a carriage, buffed to a
sun-sparkling sheen, whipped around the corner, thundering down the
cobblestones from the direction of Welbeck Street.
“Who the devil could this be?” the
marchioness whispered. She drew so near
to the window, her breath fogged the glass.
The carriage careened toward them at a breakneck pace, slowing slightly
as it neared Lady Frinfrock’s front window.
With eyes wide, the marchioness watched it jostle past her house and
well beyond the weed-ridden planters of Falcondale’s front door. Only when it reached the unoccupied house at
Number 22 did it lurch to a stop, the coachman yanking the reins as if his life
depended on it.
“Such traffic in the street today,”
mumbled Miss Breedlowe.
“Nonsense,” said Lady Frinfrock, her
eyes pinned on the carriage. “There is
no traffic in Henrietta Place. Not on this day or any day. Such recklessness? A conveyance of this size? It’s wholly irregular!”
“Indeed. Perhaps a neighbor is expecting out-of-town
guests?”
“No relation to the occupants of this
street could afford a vehicle so grand,” she said. “Except, of course, for me. And I have no relatives.”
“Not even the new earl, Lord
Falcondale?”
The marchioness harrumphed. “He cannot even afford a gardener.”
The carriage door sprang open, and
Lady Frinfrock leaned in.
“Oh, look,” said Miss Breedlowe,
cheerful interest in her voice. “It’s a young woman. How beautiful she is. And her gown.
And hat,” she marveled. “Oh,
she’s brought someone with her. A
companion. Hmm. Perhaps a servant?” Her voice went a little off, and she crooked
her head to the side, studying the two women collecting in the street.
“Is that an African?” Lady Frinfrock nearly shouted, planting both gloved palms
on the spotless glass of the window.
“I do believe her companion is
an…aboriginal woman of some sort,” croaked Miss Breedlowe, herself moving
closer to the glass.
“But whatever business could they have
in Henrietta Place?”
Miss Breedlowe reached out a hand to
steady her. “Do take care, my lady. Perhaps we should return to the comfort of
the chairs.”
“I shall not be comfortable in
chairs,” said the marchioness, swatting her away. “But has the young woman come alone?” She tapped a bony finger on the glass. “Where is her family? Her husband or parents?”
“Perhaps the men who have accompanied
her are her—”
“Servants, clearly,” interrupted the
marchioness. “Look, Miss Breedlowe.
Trunk after trunk. Crates and
baskets. Oh, God.” Her breath fogged the glass. “They are conveying it to the former front
door of Cecil Panhearst’s old house.
It’s been sealed like a tomb for the better part of a decade.”
“So they are. Perhaps you’re to have a second new
neighbor.”
“A lone young woman and an African?” She moved closer to the window.
“Highly likely, I’d say. It would appear they are…? Yes, they are unpacking.”
“Well, that cannot be,” Lady Frinfrock
declared, shaking her head at the street.
“I won’t stand for it. Not
without knowing who she may be, or where she came from. And why she is accompanied by an African.”
“Oh, do not worry,” chuckled Miss
Breedlowe, “the servants will learn her story soon enough. If she has any staff at all, they will talk
with the other servants on the street.”
For the first time since the carriage
arrived, the marchioness lifted her eyes from the window and turned to stare at
the nurse.
“Why, what an excellent idea, Miss
Breedlowe.” She raised her cane and
jabbed it in the direction of the startled younger woman. “How resourceful you are. The
servants will talk.” She raised one
eyebrow. “They will learn her story soon enough.”
As Miss Breedlowe stared in disbelief,
the marchioness scrunched her face and then swung the tip of her cane in the
direction of door.
“Oh, no, my lady,” said Miss
Breedlowe, backing away. “You cannot
mean me.”
“Oh, yes, ‘tis exactly what I
mean. Finally, a suitable application
for your indeterminate hovering and resigned sighs. We shall devise a reason for you to approach
her, and you will discover her business in my street. It is our duty as mindful, responsible
residents to know.”
“But I was speaking of the maids, my
lady. The kitchen boys. I…”
“The maids are unreliable. The kitchen boys are inarticulate. You, however, are ideal for this sort of
thing. Steel yourself, Miss
Breedlowe. We cannot know what manner of
objectionable thing she may say or do.
Better fetch your gloves. And
your hat.”
CHARIS MICHAELS is thrilled to be making her debut with Avon Impulse. Prior
to writing romance, she studied Journalism at Texas A&M and managed PR for
a trade association. She has also worked as a tour guide at Disney World,
harvested peaches on her family’s farm, and entertained children as the “Story Godmother”
at birthday parties. She has lived in Texas, Florida, and London, England. She
now makes her home in the Washington, D.C.-metro area.
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