LOST: The Love of a Lord Read online

  LOST: THE LOVE OF A LORD

  CALLING ALL RAKES

  TAMMY ANDRESEN

  Copyright © 2022 by Tammy Andresen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Missing: An Elusive Marquess

  Other Titles by Tammy

  About the Author

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  www.tammyandresen.com

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  Hugs!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Occasionally, there is a day in a girl’s life that changes everything.

  For Miss Clara Melby, the first such day had occurred at the tender age of thirteen.

  She’d been waiting for her brother to return home from Oxford for the winter holiday. Weather and final exams had delayed his homecoming, and she’d missed him terribly. Without him at home, there was little to do save crochet and attend her ceaseless lessons on elocution and decorum.

  So when his carriage finally turned up the drive, she forgot both as she raced out into the drizzle, heedless of her slippers and the hem of her gown as she splashed down the stairs and across the drive toward the slowing carriage.

  And when the door flew open, Clara tossed herself bodily toward the vehicle, sure her brother would catch her in his arms.

  Only it wasn’t her brother who traversed the carriage step. Rather than the thin shoulders and blond hair of her brother, Marcus, a dark-haired, much broader young man caught her in midlaunch, laughing as he stepped down and lightly set her aside.

  Heat filled her cheeks as she grasped the strong shoulders of the stranger, her tongue inexplicably tied.

  “I say, Marcus, you didn’t tell me your sister was a hoyden.”

  And the rosy glow that had filled her turned into an inferno of shame as he laughed at his own joke.

  “Clara,” her brother called, stepping out. “I see you’ve met my friend, Viscount Aslin, heir to the Earl of Kinross.”

  She dipped into an awkward curtsy. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I expected Marcus to exit.”

  But Aslin only laughed the more as he leaned closer. “Think nothing of it. I much prefer a hoyden to any other type of lady. Especially one who looks like an angel.”

  And with those words, she’d been completely smitten.

  That was the first day that changed her entire world. Because after Aslin had entered her life, it didn’t matter how many men attempted to win her hand, her heart had always belonged to him.

  Never mind that her mother asserted he was a terrible rake.

  Or her father ranted that while they wanted her to marry well, Aslin was too big a catch, even for her.

  Nor did she heed Aslin’s unpredictable behavior, lavishing her with favor one visit and then not writing for months on end.

  He was her future, she was sure of that. And she’d grown more certain with each yearly visit he made.

  On one such visit years later when she’d been sixteen, she’d found herself alone in the garden with him on a sunny but cold afternoon close to Christmastide. He wrapped his arm about her and held her close to keep her warm.

  She looked up at his warm brown eyes and whispered, “I could stay like this with you forever.”

  He’d given her a warm smile in return as he leaned closer, and for a moment, Clara thought he might kiss her, but instead, he did something almost as wonderful. He confessed a deep secret to her. “Angel, I can’t wed. Not until I’ve taken over the earldom and this business with my father is done. He hates me, I know he does, and I won’t give him that power over my wife.”

  She’d been beyond honored that he’d shared this piece of himself with her. Didn’t that mean he had feelings for her the way she did him? Wasn’t that why he shared this secret with her? And clearly, he was attempting to explain. With his relationship to his father so tumultuous, he’d not wed until after the earl had passed.

  He couldn’t show her favor until he was the earl.

  But how long might that be? What if it were years? Would she have to be placed on the shelf in order to save herself for him? She’d do it, she decided. She was nothing if not tenacious.

  And then, a year ago, her mother’s health had begun to decline. The change had been gradual at first. She’d become winded easily, growing tired and then thin. Clara had been racked with worry. And she’d not heard a word from Aslin despite writing him several letters about her concern.

  But equally troublesome was that her mother looked at Clara with worried eyes. “Clara, how can you not be married yet?” she’d asked a half dozen times.

  Her confidence in her future had wavered, and for the first time, she’d considered not marrying Aslin. Perhaps she shouldn’t wait. For her mother’s sake, maybe she should find someone else.

  Not that she had. She retreated into spending time with her friends and vicariously living through their romances. And she’d allowed herself to dream outside Aslin. For another man…

  Well, he wasn’t someone she’d met. Instead, she’d been reading about this man—the Bushy Hero. He stalked the night, saving innocent people from dastardly criminals. He captured her fancy and made her truly wonder, was Aslin the man for her? Should she find someone who concerned himself with the troubles of others? She needed help and Aslin was nowhere to be found.

  Which led her to the second day that had changed her life.

  Because at the age of one and twenty, today, the twentieth of June, in the year 1837, a day that started like any other—as those life-changing days often did—she’d sat down to eat her hard-boiled egg and opened her father’s paper. She could confess she’d been searching for another article on the Bushy Hero. Had he saved another woman in need? But rather than finding a story about him, another jumped off the page: a headline that once again turned her world upside down.

  The Earl of Kinross had died.

  Her fork had stopped midway to her mouth.

  Aslin was finally free to wed. This had been the barrier between her and Aslin all these years, and now that it was gone…

  Aslin was the new Earl of Kinross.

  Her breath caught as her fingers trembled around the paper, all thoughts of the Bushy Hero gone. Heedless of her uneaten breakfast, Clara jumped from the table and raced to the sitting room where she kept her stationery.

  She needed to write her brother, Marcus. He’d been away from town, back at home in Pembrokeshire, managing the family’s coal mine. But he’d have to return to London.

  Or would she and her father travel to Bristol and meet Marcus there? Marcus would have to pass through Bristol on his way to London, so perhaps that made more sense?

  Her breath hitched as she considered the possibilities.

  Was it a sign that just as she’d given up on Aslin, his father had passed, making him free to marry her? Had this been a test of her feelings?

  Would he declare his affection after all these years given her loving support?

  Her hands trembled as she clasped them together, thinking of the possibilities. Surely this was the sign that she and Aslin were meant to be. Her mother’s wish that she settle, Aslin finally being free…

  Her father appeared in the doorway. “Good morning,” he called as he stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over her as his mouth set into a frown. “What has you atwitter already? It’s not even ten o’clock.”

  She pressed her hands together, forcing her voice to be calm. “I just learned that the Earl of Kinross has passed.”

  Her father gave a stiff nod. “Shame, that.”

  She nodded, wincing inwardly that she felt only passing remorse. “It is.”

  “I received a letter from the new earl yesterday asking us to attend the funeral services.”

  She clasped her fingers together. It really did seem as though the fates were aligning. “When do we leave?”

  Her father shook her head. “I’m not certain. Your mother…”

  Her hands dropped, her brows knitting as fear knotted her belly. “Is she worse? Should I be worried?”

  Father waved his hand. “It’s nothing to worry about. She’s the same. But I’d rather not leave her all the same.”

  Clara just managed to hold in her cry. She didn’t wish to leave her mother, either, but how did she fulfill the future her mother wished for if she stayed at home? “Not travel? But we need to show the new earl our support. I—”

  Her father grimaced. “Not this again. What is your infatuation with that man?”

  Clara didn’t answer. Was it an infatuation still? She didn’t want to think on it just now. But she knew she had to go, for everyone’s sake. “Marcus will travel straight to the funeral
from Pembrokeshire?”

  “Of course,” her father answered, his frown deepening. “But if you’ve got it in your mind to go, I’d imagine one of your newlywed friends is attending and can escort you there.”

  Hope bloomed in Clara’s chest. That was precisely the answer.

  With a clear plan in place, she sat down at her desk and began to write.

  Mr. Ralph Fitzroy stared at the queen’s dignitary and attempted not to scratch his head in confusion.

  Very rarely did he go into a situation with one set of expectations only to learn that he’d had the whole thing completely wrong.

  He’d expected to come today and be arrested, if he were honest. Which he usually was. For the past six months, his younger half-brother, Wyatt, the Viscount Ware, had been leading a second life as a shadowed hero, stealing through the streets of London and capturing criminals.

  And while England was a country of people’s law and order, the practice wasn’t precisely legal.

  So when they’d had to expose the identity of the hero in order to bring an impostor earl to justice, Ralph had decided to complete the deed and take whatever punishment came with revealing his identity. He’d been half of the hero, anyway.

  Besides, Wyatt was a viscount and newly married. His life and his future were of far more importance than Ralph’s. “I beg your pardon?” he said to the man across from him.

  The other gentleman pursed his lips, clearly unimpressed with the request to repeat his words. “Her Majesty has asked for your aid.” Ralph said nothing as the man continued. “She’s aware of your connection to the Viscount Ware, which puts you in an ideal position to travel to the Earl of Kinross’s funeral.”

  “For the purpose of?” he asked, his brows furrowing as he shifted in the delicate chair. Ralph, a former boxer, was a large man, both broad and muscular with anvil-like fists and massive thighs. The furniture had clearly been made for someone far more refined than himself. It appeared as though it might buckle under his weight at any moment.

  The other, much smaller gentleman cleared his throat, leaning forward as his voice dropped to a whisper. “There are some questions involving the earl’s death.”

  Damn. The last thing he’d wanted was to become embroiled in an investigation. One that the queen had taken a special interest in. That sort of attention never ended well for someone like himself. “What kind of questions?”

  The man moved further out on his chair, his features animated for the first time during their interview. “The earl was seen in perfect health not a week before his demise.”

  Demise?

  “What was more, the relationship between father and son was contentious at best.”

  Was he to find out if the son had killed the father? If the queen knew that he was Wyatt’s bastard brother, then surely she also knew he’d come close to murdering his own sire. Several times. And that likely made him an ill-chosen candidate to investigate parricide.

  In fact, the death of his father had been a recurring fantasy through much of his childhood. “I’m not certain—”

  The other man raised one of his knobby fingers. “The queen is prepared to offer you significant compensation for your trouble.”

  “Compensation? What sort of compensation?”

  The dignitary managed to look down his long and rather hawkish nose at Ralph. “I’m not at liberty to say, though I can tell you, any favor from our queen ought to be revered, not questioned.”

  It was Ralph’s turn to frown. This man was beyond pompous, a trait he usually met with violence. He’d had a lifetime of the elite looking down upon him, and while he could consider himself less than, he’d accept that sort of behavior from no one else. “You’re asking me, a bastard, to accept the hospitality of a lord of the realm and then spy on him. Do you have any idea what sort of trouble that might bring?”

  The man tilted his chin lower, giving Ralph an even more condescending glare. “You have the queen’s backing.”

  “Until I don’t,” Ralph answered, his massive arms crossing. Any man who’d lived on the edge of society as he had knew one never trusted a handshake and a promise for some undisclosed future payment. “What assurances do I have?”

  The man’s gaze narrowed. “For a man who went about saving the city from all sorts of criminals, you seem loath to take on the queen’s justice.”

  That was likely a fair point. Wyatt would have surely already said yes. But Ralph had not grown up a member of the peerage, he’d spent his life observing the upper class. And, thanks to his father, being abused by the elite—literally. His father had beat him often and with fervor. Which meant he had no rosy assumptions about how this might end. “If it’s money, I’ll know the sum in advance.”

  Lord Whatever-his-name-was lifted his chin. “It’s more than just that.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said again, swallowing a lump. Because those words had him suddenly wondering if something real was actually going to come out of this and only fools hoped.

  The man rested his hands on his knee. “Her Majesty is willing to offer you the title of the Earl of Pembroke. She’s keeping some of the assets, of course, but you’d be given the country estate and the land that surrounds it to support your seat. And the London townhouse, of course.”

  Ralph’s mouth fell open, shock reverberating through him. “Are you saying…”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man’s mouth curled around the address as though he’d tasted something bitter. “To thank you for your service to your country and for a small bit of additional aid, the queen has gifted you a legacy. Congratulations.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  The man rose and crossed to a desk, pulling out several documents. “I can assure you, it’s very serious. Here is the proof. I will keep them until the investigation is complete, obviously. Once done, you’re welcome to take these to a solicitor, share them with your brother.”

  “I don’t get the title until I’ve proven the new earl’s guilt or innocence?”

  “That’s right. Which is why you’ll attend under your current name.” The man put all but a single sheet back into the desk.

  Ralph peeled his eyes from the pages before him to look back up at the dignitary. “Why?”

  He grimaced. “I thought it would be obvious. How can you complete the task if everyone knows you’ve been newly elevated by the queen? It’s why she thought to tell you after you’d completed your…er…mission.”

  He supposed that was true. The problem, or one of the many, was that Wyatt usually completed investigations. Not Ralph. What was more, he hated the elite, with the exception of his brother; the last thing he wanted was to be one of them. But how did one turn down the queen?

  “And if the new earl is innocent?”

  “Such the better for the realm.” The man twirled his hand, adding flair to his statement. Ralph detested flair.

  “This is a copy of the queen’s seal of approval should you need to gather any documentation. Use it wisely. It will alert anyone paying attention that you’re investigating.”

  Ralph took the sheet with a grimace. “I’ve been made an earl?”

  Lord So and So gave a quick jerk of his chin. “Yes. And in return, you only need make certain the old Earl of Kinross met with no foul play.”

  Of course, he’d have to do something even more dangerous than stalking common thieves in the night. Men of the peerage, with all their power, were ten times more dangerous. But then again, if he were one of them, he could have the power he needed to really fight injustice.

  Ralph stuck out his hand. He’d nearly spit in it first, a gesture often used by the lower classes to denote a serious transaction. Not that such a gesture was needed now, he just wanted to see what the other man would do with his offer of a wet palm.

  Gingerly, the other man shook Ralph’s hand and then executed a short bow. “We look forward to learning your findings.”