Earl of Woodcliffe: Wicked Earls’ Christmas
Earl of Woodcliffe
Wicked Earls’ Christmas
Aileen Fish
Aspendawn Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Excerpt: Earl of Edgemore
Edgemore
Wicked Earls’ Club Book List
Excerpt: The Rake Takes a Wife
The Rake Takes a Wife
Excerpt: His Impassioned Proposal
His Impassioned Proposal
About the Author
Other Books by Aileen Fish
Earl of Woodcliffe
Copyright © 2019 Aileen Fish
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go to http://aileenfish.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
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 permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Created with Vellum
A wicked game
* * *
Bored with yet another London Season, Lady Mercy Spencer and her friends challenge each other to steal a kiss from one of a select number of rogues, preferably as wicked a man as possible. Who better to choose among than the members of the elite club known as The Wicked Earls?
* * *
A tempting distraction
* * *
When his finances take a crashing blow, William Young, Eighth Earl of Woodcliffe has little choice but to lie low while he searches for the man who stole all his money. As he hunts down Eli Graingerdodging those to whom he owes money all the whilehe realizes he’s being pursued, too, by one Lady Mercy Spencer. Of all the young ladies in Town for the Season, Lady Mercy is the most dangerous, owing to her overprotective brother. She’s determined to trap him in a scandal, it seems. As beautiful as she is sly, avoiding her could prove more difficult than restoring his funds. Why won’t she find some other poor sod to marry and allow him to continue his glorious, hedonistic ways?
Chapter 1
April 1817
London
The burning sensation in William, Earl of Woodcliffe’s gut had nothing to do with the amount of liquor he’d imbibed the night before. It wasn’t the result of eating too many petit fours in Lady Billingfield’s card room. No, the sole reason for his distress was the size of the vowels he’d been forced to render to the Marquess of Markham in said card room.
With his pockets to let, he had no means to pay even a portion of the sum, and Markham expected payment in full today. Woodcliffe couldn’t ask his best friend Jonas Tatum for a loan—he owed the man too much already. No, the only thing to be done was approach Father once again and admit how he’d lost all his money.
He rode to Mayfair shortly after rising, before he could come to his senses and leave Town. Simpson, Father’s butler, greeted him as he entered the house. “My lord, you’re here early today.”
“Too early for my tastes. Is Father in his office?”
“Yes, sir. Shall I tell him you’re here?”
“No. Better I surprise him so he can’t turn me away.” Drawing a confidence-building breath, Woodcliffe strode upstairs and down the hallway, pausing just before reaching the door to his father’s office. There was still time to turn around. He could go home to Middlecroft and hide until he had some funds.
If only he believed Markham would let him off that easily.
The double doors were open, and the sweet fragrance of Father’s pipe tobacco filled the air as he entered. The massive desk and dark wainscoting added an austere look to the dark room with its deep green paint and tall bookcases. It suited the man, the second Duke of Cainbridge. He took himself quite seriously, rarely smiled, and he expected more from his son than Woodcliffe could ever supply. Love was there, he supposed, but it wasn’t demonstrated and never spoken of.
“Good morning,” Woodcliffe said with all the cheeriness he could muster.
Glancing up from his newspaper, Father wordlessly lifted a fuzzy, black caterpillar eyebrow.
“I was out for a ride and thought I’d say hello.”
“Don’t give me that falderal. If you’re here for breakfast, have Simpson order a plate from the kitchen.” He lifted the paper, screening his son from his view.
“No, thank you. I ate at the club.” He hadn’t gone anywhere near the club in fear Markham would still be playing cards and would insist on payment of Woodcliffe’s debt, but he hoped the idea of a proper meal made him appear more of a capable adult, which he was. Anyone could have landed in his position. Anyone except Father, that is.
“Get on with it, then. Why are you really here?”
“I’ve come for an advance on my allowance.”
“You have. Well then.” Neatly folding his newspaper and setting it aside, Father pulled out a drawer and withdrew a slim black leather binder. Opening it on the desk, he thumbed through the pages filled with his scrawled columns. “Ah, here we are. Let’s see…yes…carry the five…Well, adding up your prior advances, you’ve spent your income until you’re forty-three.”
Woodcliffe coughed, lowering his gaze. Surely, he hadn’t asked for as much as that. “My need is rather urgent. If you could give me even half of my quarterly, it would suffice.”
“What do you need it for this time? Damages from a brawl? Behind on your rent? Or have you lost another wager?” His father’s scowl made Woodcliffe flinch. “This is the very reason I haven’t turned over the management of the money to you. I fear what a mess you’ll make of things when I’m gone. Everything I’ve acquired, everything not entailed, will be thrown away within months, I have no doubt.”
“Cards, sir. I was certain my luck was turning if I just played one more hand.”
Drumming his fingers on the polished wood of his desk, Father studied him for a bit before asking, “And how many more hands did you play after your money ran out?”
“I lost count after ten.”
Father leaned back in his chair, rested his elbows on the arms and steepled his fingers. “I’m not going to ask who you owe this time. It doesn’t matter. I’m not rescuing you.”
Woodcliffe’s eyes widened and he broke into a cold sweat. “But, sir—”
“You’re thirty years old—”
“Twenty-nine,” Woodcliffe inserted.
“And it’s time you took some responsibility. Pay your own debts. Settle down and find a nice, respectable young lady to marry. Not too rich, or you’ll drain her accounts, too. Grow up, my boy, it’s past time.”
“But…” He couldn’t come up with a reasonable excuse to delay the inevitable. One day he’d marry, just not today…or this year. Father was wrong about one thing, though. He was too proud to spend his wife’s money.
Try as he might, he was unable to admit what had actually happened to his money. Yes, when he was in his early twenties, he’d had a bad gambling habit. Since he only played cards at the private club he and his friends belonged to, the losses had been easy to control. He won as often as he lost, and only toward the end of a quarter did his allowance run dry.
By the time he was twenty-five, he’d learned to read his opponents better and took his gambling to other tables, clubs and private card games, it didn’t matter. He was good, and he made money. A goodly sum, most of which he pla
ced in a private account in a different bank than his father used, so his father had no control over the funds. No one could access them except Woodcliffe and his secretary, Eli Grainger.
Yes, Woodcliffe was excellent at reading a man’s expression at the card table. But he was deplorably naïve when it came to knowing whom he could trust.
Common sense told him that when he found Grainger the money would be gone, but he was determined to find the man and see that he was duly punished. In the meantime, there were bills due and a need for trivial items such as food. As he’d expected, his father wasn’t going to help him. He rose without comment.
Woodcliffe left as gracefully as he could, tossed a coin to the boy holding the reins of his horse, and trotted off with no destination in mind. There must be a way to borrow money from someone. Who hadn’t he borrowed from lately, and which among those didn’t he already owe money to? Failing that, he’d find some poor fool to play cards with and win enough to appease Markham for a time. Markham was not a patient man.
Chapter 2
Drowning in a sea of muslin, lustring, taffeta, and silk, Lady Mercy Spencer sighed. “I’m bored.”
“How can you be bored with all we’ve bought? Here, try on my peach sarcenet.” Lady Selena Cornett held out the gown she was holding up in front of the cheval mirror. It matched her pretty, warm features perfectly. Her group of friends were all of similar size so they could wear each other’s’ clothing, but their coloring varied enough to limit the times they actually borrowed from one of the other girls in their clique.
“Peach isn’t my color.” Mercy approached the mirror and tucked in place a few hair pins that had loosened while trying on hats. She wished her thin, plain brown hair was as thick as Clara’s or curly like Selena’s, but at least it was biddable and willing to stay in whatever style her maid choose, whether simple or elaborate. For the most part she was pleased with her looks. Gentlemen paid enough compliments to make it clear she was one of the prettiest unmarried ladies in Town in a given year, but their praise didn’t excite her. She’d much rather discuss a new novel than listen to a man prattle on in a manner that he hoped would make her fall in love. When she found a man who complimented her mind, then she’d know he was the only man for her.
She and her friends had spent the afternoon ordering clothes for the Season and picking up a few items they’d ordered months ago. With packages, wrapping paper, and garment strewn about her bedchamber, she hardly had room to walk. Her friends scurried about edging in front of each other to see themselves in the mirror. Their chatter was bright as it always was when they gathered together. Mercy took a moment to observe them with a smile. This was what pleased her most, being in the company of these girls.
“My puce spencer would look quite well with your sprigged cotton, Mercy.” Changing her topic quickly, Lady Clara Armstrong held up her new bonnet in one hand and several ribbons in the other. “Which one suits these flowers better, the pink or the yellow?”
“Don’t you have a green ribbon?” asked Lady Matilda Franklin. “If not, I have some at home.”
As happy as she was to be with her friends, Mercy needed something more. She yawned with no pretense of trying to mask it. “I don’t care for more gowns, or hats, or slippers. I want to do something.”
Always eager to please, Lady Clara rolled to her knees, shoving a gown off her lap. “Can we walk along the Serpentine and see which gentlemen have arrived from the country? Mama said Mr. King’s aunt said he’ll be in Town this week.”
“Walking is dull.” If Mercy didn’t find some form of entertainment soon, something to stimulate her mind, she would go mad. At three-and-twenty years old, this was her fifth Season and she had no more inclination to marry now than in the past. Watching her mama sit day after day reading or working on yet another piece of needlework gave her no desire to give up the activities she enjoyed to become a married woman. “I need a challenge. Some sort of wager.”
“Mama hasn’t given me my allowance,” Mattie said. “I can’t bet anything. Will you allow me to pay you in a few weeks?”
Clara’s laugh bubbled. “Mattie, you always assume you’ll lose.”
“I do always lose.” She plucked at the drawstring on a new gold velvet reticule.
“We’ll bet something other than money. I have enough of that,” Mercy said with all modesty. Her allowance met her needs with some savings at the end of each quarter. “We’ll make it more interesting.”
Selena shook out the gown in her arms and draped it across the bed. “I’ll play along. What will we wager, and what must we do to win?”
“Kiss a man.” Mattie lifted her chin and tilted her head as she grinned, quite pleased with herself.
“What?” Clara’s eyes bulged at the thought.
“Who?” Selena’s grin was ravenous. “There are a few gentlemen who I’d love to kiss.”
“Do you mean there are some you haven’t?” Clara puckered her lips and passionately kissed the air. Selena tossed a bonnet at her.
Mercy crossed to the window to look out on the street. Each day there were more riders and carriages as everyone returned to Town from their country houses. More morning calls, more invitations—but nothing held her attention for more than half an hour.
“We’ll each choose a man,” Mattie explained, “from among the friends of the Miscreant Marquess.”
Turning around sharply, Mercy fisted her hands on her hips. “I wish you would stop calling him that. Markham is my brother, after all. Show him some respect.”
“I’m not calling him anything the rest of the ton hasn’t,” Mattie insisted. “All of his friends are wicked in their own way.”
“Well, if we do this, no one may choose Markham. I couldn’t bear to think of any of you kissing my brother. How horrid!” Mercy shuddered and rubbed her hands on her arms as if a cold wave had washed over her. Family and friends were two separate matters, and her friends deserved to find a man who was ready and willing to marry them. Even if all they wanted was a kiss, the scandal would be much slighter if they were caught in an embrace with a man of good reputation.
“Give me some paper and a pen,” Clara said. “We’ll choose four men, put their names in a hat and each pick one.”
Minutes later, they allowed Mercy to draw a name first, given her status as the daughter of a duke. “The Earl of Woodcliffe. How am I to kiss him? Whenever he ventures out of his club, he hides in someone’s card room.”
Clara grinned, and the other two ladies giggled. “You wanted a challenge. You certainly won’t become bored searching for him.”
The three laughed at her, then drew names for themselves.
This could turn into an interesting wager, Mercy thought. Not only did she have to find a way to trap Woodcliffe outside a ballroom, but she must also do it in a way that her brother wouldn’t find out. She’d hate to think what Markham would do to Woodcliffe if he learned of the kiss. For a moment she felt guilty about the situation she hoped to put Woodcliffe in, but the moment quickly passed. If all went as planned, no one would know about the kiss and Woodcliffe would bear no ill repercussions.
Selena folded the name she’d drawn without reading it aloud and put it in her pocket. “How do we know we can believe each other? Any of us could lie about it. Not that I would. Nor am I suggesting you would, either. Oh, forget I said anything.” She hung her head.
“She has a point,” Clara said.
Mercy tapped her finger on her chin while she ran ideas through her head. “The kiss must be witnessed. By one of us, or someone we trust.”
“But others will see us if we’re in an exposed location,” Mattie complained. “My mother would take me back to Grandmama’s cottage in Little Marsh and I’d miss the entire Season.”
“You’ll simply have to be extremely devious, won’t you? Look, we’ve chosen four rakehells. How difficult will it be to entice one of them to kiss us? The answer is obvious—it won’t be.”
Clara glanced once more at h
er paper and then sighed. “Mr. Taylor doesn’t even know I exist. I shall have to pay him to kiss me.”
“You miss the point entirely,” said Mattie. “These rogues will kiss anything in a skirt. We might have this all decided at Almack’s next week.”
“Have we said what we’ll wager?” Selena stole Mattie’s turban and pranced to the mirror to try it on.
Mercy looked over their pile of hat boxes, torn wrapping paper and shoe boxes. Anything she wished to own Papa would buy. To her, the challenge itself was the entire point. Her only motivation in life was to be best—or first—at something. To play the pianoforte better than Mattie, which she’d yet to master. To sing better than Selena…her dear friend was gifted with the most beautiful voice ever heard, so Mercy would never accomplish that. Clara—she did everything well. Her paintings drew compliments from all who saw them. The emotion with which she read poetry made her friends cry.
Come to think of it, there was nothing Mercy did better. They all looked up to her, but she’d done nothing to deserve it.
She did have more nerve than her friends, however. She wasn’t too shy to flirt with a man—she wasn’t too shy about anything. This scheme would be easy for her, something at which she could finally best her friends.
“Mercy? What do you think? About the prize for our wager.”
“Oh, yes. Well. Mattie, you’ll put in your turban. Selena, your half-boots. Clara, what did you buy today? Oh, your reticule. No, not that one, it matches the pelisse. The silver one.”
“But I haven’t even used it yet,” Clara whined.