The Exception of an Earl Read online

  the exception of an earl

  THE VALIANT LOVE

  REGENCY ROMANCE

  a historical romance book

  deborah wilson

  Copyright and About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Deborah Wilson

  All Rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this book in any form or by any electronic means without written permission from the author. Recording of this book is strictly prohibited. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright and About the Author

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  Copyright and Disclaimer

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  * * *

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  One of Jane Austen’s predecessors was Frances Burney (1752-1840). Burney also tried to publish her work secretly, but her life in the shadows didn’t last long when her father began to spread the word of his daughter’s talent.

  Burney was a successful novelist in a time when women were repeatedly told to be quiet. She used her words to open the eyes of readers to the faults of those who were often thought to be perfect—mainly the ton.

  One of her successful books was called Camilla (1796).

  And while her father disapproved of her aspirations to also write plays, his support of her novels allowed the world to accept her as well.

  For a period renowned for their rules on everything from fashion to table etiquette, it surprises me that they would make allowance for a woman if the head of the household did.

  Burney’s story is a great example of the power of men and the power of fathers.

  And while all fathers have their faults, it’s lovely to know that our Heavenly Father has none.

  Please enjoy Husher and Camilla’s story about family, fatherhood, forgiveness, and always, always love.

  * * *

  May 1825, London, England

  Lady Camilla James pressed her trembling lips together and fisted her hands in her lap. A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away.

  “Camilla, please don’t cry,” her brother called from the other side of the carriage. “I don’t enjoy the sight of feminine tears.”

  She turned away from the window and glared. “Well, perhaps that’s the point of tears. Perhaps it is the reason that when one grows angry or upset, their face turns red and scrunches like a prune! You’re not supposed to enjoy it, Luke. You’re supposed to do something to make it stop.”

  Why was the world so cruel? The publishers didn’t want her book.

  The Earl of Tolkin sat forward and covered Camilla’s hands with his own. “Camilla, I’m sorry.” His gray eyes softened with sympathy. “You can always try again.”

  “But how long will that take?” she asked. “It took me months to write that book. Months!”

  The publishers didn’t want her book.

  He frowned. “Doesn’t it take most writers such an amount of time? I hear that it often takes years.”

  Years?

  Her stomach fell.

  She didn’t have years. She wanted to write one soon. She needed a published book before the Season ended. “That’s too long!”

  “Too long?” He laughed and the tone seemed mocking to her ears though she knew he didn’t mean for it to sound that way. His eyes warmed. “Camilla, you sound like a commoner who is in need of money when you are not. You’ve no debts that must be paid, and you receive a generous allowance. Are you sure this isn’t just about your pride?”

  There was a little pride in it. She loved to write, but she also loved to be adored.

  But it was more than that.

  Her brother sighed. “Why don’t you write a book like the first one? The Good Father was a great book. Everyone loved it. Mr. Massey said it still sells pretty well.”

  She didn’t care about sales or money. “Don’t you think I’ve been trying to write another The Good Father? I can’t.” It simply wasn’t in her. She’d tried over and over again.

  “It was a very good book,” her brother said. “The way the father arrived at the last minute to save his drowning daughter… That man was a true hero. Every man in England wanted to be the great Mr. Reevas. It was a very touching story. Even now, I hear people make comments at parties like, ‘Well, he’s no Mr. Reevas.’ Your book is an inspiration.”

  Camilla smiled and then laughed. The tears that began to fall were for a different reason entirely. How easily she forgot how wonderful her brother was. “Thank you, Luke.”

  Her brother leaned back and nodded, clearly glad that he’d accomplished his goal of making her smile. He was a comely man. Most people said they both took after their mother. Their eyes were gray and their hair a golden blond. Camilla’s was darker, almost seeming brown in shadowy places. She was a few inches shorter than her brother but slightly taller than other girls.

  Her mother had given her wide hips and skin that browned far too quickly in the sun. Summers were the best and worst of times for Camilla.

  Her brother said, “It surprises me that you could write such a work. Our own father is no Mr. Reevas, even if he does tell everyone who’ll listen that he was your muse.”

  Luke had succeeded in banishing her sadness, so she decided to ignore his comment about their father in favor of the happiness that currently resided in her heart. “I already told you that Mr. Reevas isn’t a construct of Father but you.”

&n
bsp; Luke shook his head and laughed. His eyes brightened as a blush covered his face. “But I’m not a father.”

  “Well, you’re still my hero.” Luke had been there when their own father had not.

  Her brother grinned again but then his eyes took on a sadness. “That book was the reality you hoped for, wasn’t it? You wanted a father like Mr. Reevas. Even as old as you are now, you still hope for it, don’t you?”

  Camilla didn’t bother looking away as she nodded. “I don’t care about the public, Luke.” She smiled as excitement bubbled in her chest. “Did you see how pleased Father was when the book first sold? He was so happy. He was around often and took me to nearly every ball that year.”

  Luke leaned forward and squeezed her hand again. His eyes were hard once more. “Cammie, listen to me, you must stop. If you wish to write a good book then write it for yourself, but don’t write it for him. Father… He’ll never be Mr. Reevas.”

  “But he can be; he was before. I know he can be again. He was so kind to me after the first book. He was always there—”

  “He used you, and he’ll use you again if you allow it.”

  Camilla yanked her hand from her brother’s grasp. “You don’t know that and how could you say that? He spends all his time with you, his heir, his firstborn.” Camilla often saw the Marquess of Hornstein at parties, but he didn’t speak to her unless she approached. He only came to visit her during the holidays and even then, it was for less than an hour.

  It was her mother who drove him away with her weeping and bitterness. She drove everyone away with her anger, even Luke. He only bothered to step into their house to see Camilla and only when he suspected their mother had taken a sleeping aid.

  Camilla had grown up feeling anger and pain on her mother’s behalf. She’d spent the better part of the last ten years trying to make her mother happy. The entire ton knew her father lived with his mistress.

  Lord Hornstein didn’t care about the gossip and how it would follow his family, yet ten years later, Camilla desperately wanted to shake her mother and tell her to get over it.

  But she didn’t because deep down, she knew she was just like her mother. Camilla couldn’t let go. It didn’t matter how many times Luke told her to move on and be happy, Camilla’s one goal in life was to get her father back.

  And then maybe he could fix their broken family.

  “You think I enjoy spending time with him?” Luke asked. “Especially after the way he treated Mother and you? I tolerate him because he still has the power to write me out of his will. Upon his death, I can gain an empty title if he is displeased. He could leave everything with Julia and Morgana. Then where would that leave you and Mother?”

  Julia Walker was their father’s mistress. Morgana was their young half-sister.

  Camilla frowned. “Thank you for thinking of us.”

  “Of course, you are my sister.” He smiled. “I would never leave you.”

  The carriage stopped in front of the white brick townhouse Camilla shared with her mother, and her stomach turned with anxiety. Luke had taken her to the publisher and now he was returning her home.

  “You can come over,” Luke said. “I have some business to attend to, but I’m sure Emily would be glad for the visit.”

  Camilla really liked Luke’s wife. Emily was kind and warm and always put a smile on her brother’s face. They’d been married for less than a year, but in that time, the two women had formed a friendship. “Yes, please.”

  Luke arranged for the carriage to make its way to the other side of Mayfair, and Camilla took an easy breath. She couldn’t avoid home forever, but she needed time to think.

  She needed to write a new book.

  “Maybe I could continue to write about Mr. Reevas.” It was an idea she’d had for some time.

  Her brother shook his head. “No, I’d be afraid of what would happen if you ruin him.” He cringed at his own bluntness. “Sorry. I mean…”

  “No, you’re right. The book still sells well. If I ruin the character then that could change.”

  Luke’s eyes widened. “The Good Father was a book built on your hopes. Why don’t you do that again? What do you hope for? You’re twenty-three. Don’t you wish to marry? To find love? Lord Nelson has been asking after you again.”

  She ignored the comment about Nelson. The man was Luke’s most boring acquaintance. They would never suit. “You think I should write a romance?” she asked instead.

  She’d never done that before, though she did think herself quite romantic. She enjoyed watching people fall in love. She liked the looks Luke and Emily shared in private. But there were a hundred things that stopped her. “Do you think Father would read a romance?”

  She regretted the question immediately.

  “Don’t do this for Father. Do it for you, because you enjoy writing.”

  She nodded. He was right.

  And if it was a success then perhaps…

  Camilla opened her purse and took out her pencil and journal. She would write a romance, which meant she’d need a leading male and a leading lady. She didn’t want to think about the woman at the moment, so she focused on the man.

  What would her hero look like? What did his voice sound like? She focused and then wrote, green eyes and blond hair.

  She’d always liked green eyes. Ones that matched vibrant forests or wet moss.

  Actually, Camilla like most colors on most men. Men were so fascinating, especially the attractive ones. She enjoyed watching them swagger across ballrooms and listening to them laugh.

  She liked the way a few smiled at her, their lips turned up, their eyes hiding secret desires.

  She felt a blush creep up her cheeks and dipped her head as she bit her lip. She didn’t want her brother to know she’d been fantasizing about men, which she often did.

  A flutter went off in her heart. She was writing a romance and for the first time in years, she was excited.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

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  * * *

  Sir William Husher grunted as the ropes that bound his arms around the thin tree were tightened. The ones that held his feet were tested once more before his captor came back around and smiled in his face.

  “Got you,” Mr. Hennison said.

  Will was actually grateful for the ropes. They were the only thing currently keeping him on his feet. At least when he died, he wouldn’t have to stare up at anyone.

  Even now, Mr. Hennison was forced to tilt his chin up just a little.

  Will kept his expression stoic. “It seems you have me at an advantage, Mr. Hennison.” He didn’t bother testing the ropes. The man was a former sailor. If there was anything he excelled at, it was tying rope.

  Otherwise, Will thought Mr. Hennison’s mind a rather dull place. Will had been following the criminal around for the better part of two months and had even been sleeping in the man’s home.

  Mr. Hennison hadn’t known until this morning when a maid had come into the guest room that hadn’t been disturbed since long before Husher’s arrival.

  Husher had tried to charm the lass into the bed with him—purely to keep her quiet—but she’d screamed.

  Hennison had a friend on the way for a visit, which was why the maid had come to clean the room that had otherwise been left untouched. Will could only assume this friend was an accomplice to Mr. Hennison’s many sinister deeds.

  The man sold British secrets to their enemies, betraying his own country in favor of money.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Hennison said.

  “I imagine you will.” Will grinned at the man’s irritated look. “What? Am I supposed to fear you?” He’d been beating Will for the last hour.

  It pained Will to smile, but he did, nonetheless.

  In truth, he wanted to live, but he wouldn’t give this man the satisfaction of knowing it.

  The fist that struck his gut stole his breath. Will would have fallen over were it not for his bindings, but alas…

  “Fi
rst, you’re going to tell me who sent you and what you know,” Hennison said. “Then I’m going to kill you.”

  Will said nothing but only because he was still fighting for air.

  “Who sent you?” Hennison asked.

  Will took a deep breath. “Your father-in-law sent me. He said he wanted his daughter to meet a real man.”

  He was struck again and spots glittered in his vision. The pain was great and spread.

  “Who sent you?” Hennison shouted.

  It took a moment for Will to find his words. “Saint Nicholas.”

  “Who?”

  “Twas the Night before Christmas, when all through the house—”

  Hennison’s fist slammed into his jaw, and Will tasted his own blood. The metal flavor filled his mouth. He choked and spat in the man’s face.

  Then Will laughed. “Not a fan of poetry, are you?” He’d wanted to see his enemy painted in blood; he’d just assumed that it would have been Hennison’s. Not his.

  A small part of Will thought he wouldn’t mind death. He supposed his job was significant to those who employed him, but he could easily be replaced by someone else. Very few would mourn him.

  Hennison wiped his face with the back of his hand and then placed a blade at Will’s rib.

  He stiffened and cursed himself for giving Hennison a reaction.

  The former yeoman laughed. “I’ve only known for you for little more than an hour and already I hate you.”

  “My mother always said other men would hate me and that I was far too attractive for my own good. What is it about me, I wonder? Could it be my eyes? Women love my eyes. My mother compared them to serpentine. Have you ever heard of the stone?”

  “You mean the river?”

  Husher took a breath. He was stalling and hoping his friends came for him. “Yes, the river has glimpses of the color as well, but I speak about the stone. It’s more like that green you can sometimes see on the edge of the water. Soft. Translucent. It makes women think they can see down to the very depths of my soul.” As though he had one.

  “I’m done threatening you,” Hennison hissed. “Perhaps it’s time you learn how serious I am.” He pushed the blade in just a little.