Forever Your Earl

 

Dedication

To Zack. Forever.

 

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Nicole Fischer and Kevan Lyon, for making all this possible. And special thanks to the unwavering support of Rachel Jones.

 

Contents

 

Chapter 1

Though London presents itself to the world as the apotheosis of all that is moral and upstanding, it might shock our readers to learn that the appearance of virtue can be a very clever disguise. It is the opinion of this humble periodical that wickedness and deception are far more common than our readers may apprehend. Thus the necessity of this most respectful scrap of writing—­that we may, through the revelation of the scandalous activities of our Town, provide necessary guidance. But leading a life of probity may be difficult, especially when presented with temptation . . .

The Hawk's Eye,
May 2, 1816

London, 1816

A
man rich in wealth and scandal walked into Eleanor Hawke's office.

Eleanor was no stranger to scandal. Anything immoral, disreputable, shocking, or titillating made its way into the pages of her newspaper—­particularly if it involved the wealthy and elite of London Society. She detailed all of it for her thrice-­weekly publication,
The Hawk's Eye.
Nobody wanted to read about ordinary shopkeeper Mr. Jones who might or might not be spending time with the humdrum widow Mrs. Smith.

No,
The Hawk's Eye
sold strictly on the basis of its publishing the latest scandalous doings of Lord This and Lady That. All, of course, under the pretense of decrying the lack of morals in this fair city, and that publishing these lurid activities served as object lessons to the young and impressionable.

And it was Eleanor's job as owner and publisher to see to the moral education of London.

Which was utter rubbish, naturally.

But scandal put bread on her table and kept the rain off her head, and she readily immersed herself in it—­the spirit of free enterprise, and all that.

Still, when Daniel Balfour, the Earl of Ashford himself, walked into the offices of
The Hawk's Eye
on a Wednesday afternoon, blocking the gray light as the door opened and closed, it was both shocking and inevitable that he should do so. Unsurprisingly, he clenched several copies of her paper in his hand.

Lord Ashford marched through the cramped warren of rooms, and writers, bent over their desks, lifted their heads to watch in openmouthed amazement as he passed. Eleanor's private office lay at the end of the corridor, giving her an ample view of the scene as it played out before her.

The earl stopped in front of Harry Welker's desk. The young writer stared up at Lord Ashford, the men separated not just by the expanse of battered oak but by circumstance and birth as well.

“H-­how might I help you, my lord?” Harry asked, his voice cracking.

“Tell me where Mister E. Hawke is.” Lord Ashford had a deep voice, rounded by generations of excellent breeding and
noblesse oblige
.

“
Mister
Hawke, my lord?” There was patent confusion in the young man's voice.

Lord Ashford pointed to one of the papers he carried. “It says here that
The Hawk's Eye
is owned and published by one E. Hawke. Where will I find him?”

“Nowhere, my lord,” Harry answered. “There's no
Mister
Hawke here.”

The earl scowled, clearly not used to being denied. “This scurrilous rag cannot publish itself.”

“It doesn't,” Eleanor announced, setting aside her quill and standing. “If you're looking for
Miss
Eleanor Hawke, I'm right over here.”

Lord Ashford looked directly at her, and for the first time, she had a sense of what a rabbit might feel like when sighted by a wolf. But she wasn't the only one at a disadvantage. The earl couldn't hide the shock in his expression when he discovered that the publisher and owner of the paper was, in truth, a woman—­which gave her a small measure of gratification.

He turned from Harry without another word and walked straight toward her. And she could only stand, pinned by his gaze, as he approached.

The closer he got, the more she realized how dangerous the earl was. Perhaps not in the traditional sense—­though she'd heard and written about the duels he'd fought and won—­but certainly in the realm of masculine allure. Her few times seeing him had been from a distance: the theater, the races, at a public assembly. She knew him by sight, but he didn't know her, and they'd never met. And in those instances, her vision had been good enough to recognize that he was a fine specimen, well-­formed, handsome—­everything a rich and notorious nobleman should be.

But Lord Ashford up close was rather . . . appalling. It didn't seem right that a man so blessed by fortune and title should also be so attractive.

His dark brown hair was fashionably cut and artfully tousled, as if he'd recently risen from a lover's bed. Given his reputation, that was most likely possible. He had a broad forehead, a coin-­clean jawline, thick brows, and eyes that, even with yards between her and him, stunned her with their blue clarity. Naturally, he had a mouth that looked very adept at kissing and . . . other things.

He moved with a long-­limbed ease that betrayed his skill as a sportsman. His ink-­blue coat fit the broad width of his shoulders, and his cream waistcoat, embroidered in gold, defined the shape of his torso—­his tailor on Jermyn Street produced excellent work. Snug doeskin breeches were tucked into polished Hessians that came from Bond Street.

Truly, he was quite alarming.

“
Miss
Hawke?” he asked sharply, coming to stand in front of her paper-­cluttered desk. “I wasn't expecting a female.”

“Neither were my parents,” she answered, sitting, “but they learned to adapt. How might I help you, my lord?”

Though she felt an obligation to ask the question, she braced herself for what was sure to be a scorching lecture.

He removed his hat and set it aside. Then he held up an issue of
The Hawk's Eye
and began to read.

“ ‘Lord A—­d, a figure well-­known to our assiduous and genteel readers, was lately seen in the company of a certain Mrs. F—­e, whose late husband made his considerable fortune through the manufacture and sale of a woman's garment we blush to mention in these virtuous pages.' ” He tossed one of the issues to the ground. “Wrong.”

“You cannot deny—­”

But he wasn't done. Holding up another issue of the paper, he read again. “ ‘It may or may not stun our honorable readers to learn that the notorious Lord A—­d has not amended his ways following the duel over Lady L., from Y—­shire, and has been espied with another married lady of questionable character, at the late-­night revels hosted by the equally rakish Mr. S—­n. Yet it was noted by our keen-­eyed intelligence that this married lady was not the only female vying for the earl's favors.' ” This paper he also cast to the floor. “Wrong.”

She herself had written those pieces, and while they weren't matchless examples of English prose, she was still rather proud of them, as she was of all her labors. To have her hard work thrown to the ground like so much garbage was rankling.

“I assure you, my lord,” she said bitingly, “
The Hawk's Eye
strives for the greatest of accuracy.” She had a network of sources, which she used regularly to provide information. Many members of the aristocracy were in dire need of funds, and they gladly turned on each other in order to maintain the pretense of effortless wealth. Eleanor always paid her informants to keep them returning.

Whether or not they lied to her just to collect payment wasn't her concern, but she always preferred it if she could validate their statements. Sometimes that meant going out and conducting a few investigations. But she was a very busy woman—­writing articles, editing countless others, managing the paper's finances—­and didn't always have the time.

She had to earn a living, after all. And men like the earl didn't.

Continuing, she said, “That's exceptionally conceited of you, my lord, to assume that
you
are Lord A—­d.” Leaning back in her chair, she gave a thin smile. “I could be writing about Lord Archland. Or perhaps Lord Admond.”

“Lord Archland hasn't left his country estate in a decade,” the earl answered, “and Lord Admond's days of scandal happened when red heels and powdered wigs were in fashion. The man written about is undoubtedly, nauseatingly, me.”

So much for that defense. “Oh, but you're far from nauseating, my lord. In fact, you're enthralling—­to my readers,” she hastened to add.

Lord Ashford shook his head. “It amazes me that the citizens of London have such paltry lives that they'd care a groat what I did.”

“The provinces, too,” she added. “I have a thousand subscribers throughout the country.”

He threw up his hands. “Ah, that improves the situation immeasurably. I cannot fathom what my concern was.”

“As my paper states,” she said, “you are London's most notorious rake. Of course ­people care what you do.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, a movement that emphasized that the width of his shoulders didn't come from the work of a tailor's artful needle.

“One might think that your readers would be far more interested in the food shortages that have resulted from recent crop failures,” he fired back. “Or perhaps they might be intrigued by the East Indian volcanic explosion. Maybe, just maybe, they'd be concerned with Argentina declaring its independence from Spain. Did none of that ever cross your mind, Miss Hawke, rather than reporting spurious gossip about a figure as inconsequential as myself?”

Though she was momentarily shocked that a man as infamously dissolute as Lord Ashford would be so well informed, she quickly recovered.

“I'd hardly call you inconsequential, my lord,” she countered. “Your family name goes back to the time of Queen Elizabeth. If memory serves, your ancestor Thomas Balfour won himself an earldom as a privateer to the queen—­though others merely called him a pirate with a government charter. It seems as though scandal runs in your blood. How could the public not be fascinated?”

It was his turn to look surprised. He likely didn't expect her to be so knowledgeable of his ancestry. But Eleanor was nothing if not thorough. She had
Debrett's
memorized the way others knew their Bible verses.

“Because I am merely one man,” he answered. “Granted, a man with a somewhat extensive wardrobe—­”

Of mistresses,
she silently added.

“But hardly worth page after page of precious paper and ink,” he concluded.

“You belong to a gentleman's club, do you not?” she asked pointedly. “White's, if memory serves. And what do you do there?”

“Drink.”

“You appear quite sober now,” she said, “and you always take your luncheon there. Given the hour, you likely were at White's, then came here. As I cannot smell the reek of alcohol on your breath or person, I highly doubt that drinking is the only activity in which you engage at your club.”

“Ah, you have me figured out. In fact,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I spend most of my time there plotting how to live off the blood of the lower classes.”

“I strongly suspect that if that had been your ambition, I and my commoner brethren would be drained dry by now.”

“Perhaps I need to strengthen my motivation,” he replied. “You're doing a rather bang-­up job of it.”

“What a proud day for me,” she said. “To have driven an earl toward thoughts of vampirism. But come now, you're being deliberately obtuse. What else—­besides imbibe and plot the agony of the lesser classes—­do you do at your club?”

“Read the newspaper,” he answered.

Ah! Finally. “And for those gentlemen who haven't the connections or wealth to be members of a club, there are always the coffee houses. They stock newspapers for their customers, too.”

“Perhaps it's time to get a quill sharpener,” he said acidly, “because I fail to see your point.”

She came around her desk and leaned against it, so that a distance of only a few feet separated them. “My point, Lord Ashford, is that there are countless sources for the news you cited. Most of their offices can be found within a quarter mile of here. Those papers are for
news.
But
The Hawk's Eye
provides something that the
Times
and other papers do not.”

“Paper for lining birdcages,” he said.

“Moral guidance.”

He gave one single, harsh laugh. “I ought to fetch the attendants from Bedlam, because you're clearly in the grips of a powerful delusion. Like our own dear monarch, God save him. Shall I bring you a mitre and crook and declare you pope?”

She pressed her lips together. This wasn't the first time she'd come under attack for her paper's practices, but seldom by someone as articulate and intelligent as the earl. It didn't help that he had a most distracting physical appearance. How could a man possess such a pair of spectacularly blue eyes? Like the glint of sapphires washed in autumn sunlight.

“It's right here beneath the paper's name,” she said, picking up an issue lying on her desk. “
Consilium per stadium.
‘Guidance through observation
.
' If you led a more moral life, you wouldn't appear in my paper at all.”

He looked at her with patent disbelief. “What unbounded cheek, for you to judge me. You, who profit from feeding on carrion, like some quill-­wielding hyena.”

Eleanor considered herself someone with a thick skin and a decent amount of composure, but for some reason, the earl's words struck her with a strange sensation she hadn't experienced in a long while. If she had to guess, it was a mixture of pain and . . . shame.

She quickly shook the feeling off. Shame was for those who could afford it. And she couldn't.