Chapter Two
The Demon Earl
The single candle in the washroom flickered in a draft. Ella glanced from the cracked mirror to the table where the candle sat. They would be fortunate if the taper lasted the night.
“Ella, I don’t want to—”
Ella shot her little brother a glare in the mirror and murmured a single world, “Stealing.”
He dropped his gaze and pulled his knees against his chest where he sat on the upended washtub. She returned her attention to her reflection and jabbed the last of her blonde locks under the cap she’d borrowed from him. She squinted in the dim candlelight and studied herself. The tan breeches hugged her slim legs. The stress of the past two years—the last few months, in particular—had taken a toll. Her once voluptuous figure had melted away and her rosy cheeks were now pale and drawn. She released a slow breath. She’d always dreamt of having a willowy figure. Now—thanks to her father’s fall from grace—she had one.
She glanced at Cyril. Shame and excitement warred on his young face. The worry she’d fought these last months niggled harder. Thankfully, he hadn’t suffered as much physically as she had. With youth came exuberance—and innocence. He was so gullible, and continually fell victim to the street urchin’s schemes. Which is what brought them to their current dilemma.
She faced her brother. How far they’d fallen. A little less than two years ago, she’d dined with the princess. Even seven months ago, despite her father’s conviction for killing his wife’s lover, she and Cyril had attended house parties with the last close friends who would associate with them.
Ella gave her reflection a final scrutiny. “I’ll pass for a man, or at least a youth.”
Even at this early hour of the night, the neighborhood drunks were out en force. It would be dangerous for a woman to walk the streets without adult male companionship. A too-familiar fear rippled through her at the memory of another danger she’d faced in her own home only seven months past: her cousin Gavin. Her heart twisted. Cyril and she would have moved into a modest cottage in the country…if not for Gavin. When he’d appeared on their doorstep twenty months ago, she’d turned him away. Her father, however, had set Gavin in charge of their finances—including her inheritance and dowry.
Now, she and Cyril ate day-old bread, if they were fortunate, at a table in a dismally dark and rat-infested wash room located in the slums of Edinburgh. From dawn until dark—indeed, long into the night—she scrubbed clothes. When her work was done, she stumbled to a corner pallet and fell into an exhausted sleep next to her brother. When the sun rose, she started again. And that start wasn’t far away.
“Cyril—”
“It was a dare, Ella,” the boy cut in.
She crossed the room in three steps. “Is the watch yours, Cyril?” She gave his ear a twist.
The child squirmed under her grip like a worm on a hook. “Sean said he was a demon. The Demon Earl. It was a dare. I had to prove I was a man.”
Ella pursed her lips. “You’re far too trusting. If I hadn’t come along, Sean would have taken the watch and sold it. He’s having you steal for him, Cyril. Can’t you see?”
Her brother’s eyes widened. She blew a long, desperate breath. This latest incident of the watch wasn’t his first brush with trouble. With his blond hair, blue eyes and chubby cheeks, he even looked like the angel he was. Of course, the pickpockets would use him to their advantage. Eight-year-old boys should be in school, but there was no hope for that. What could she do? The only thing she could.
“You’ll stay with me and help wash clothes,” Ella said. The wash house was hardly a safe environment, but it was the best she could provide.
“But, Ella,” he whined.
“That’s the price you’ll pay, young man. There’s no excuse for stealing. You’re no thief, you’re a…” She caught herself before she said ‘Stratford.’
With her father in prison for murder and her mother in France with her latest lover, being a Stratford was something she’d rather forget. Indeed, she’d assumed her mother’s maiden name of Wetherby in order to distance herself from her family’s scandal—and from Gavin. She had every confidence he would never forgive her for disappearing before he could take her maidenhead.
She took a deep breath and started again. “You’re a gentleman, Cyril. Never forget that. A gentleman—not a common street thief.”
Cyril scowled. Ella tousled his fair head and went to the baskets of folded clothes stacked in the corner of the room, ready for tomorrow morning’s delivery. She’d washed several men’s coats that afternoon. Surely, she could find one that fit. She quickly located a gray twill overcoat, somewhat smaller than the rest.
“This will do.” She shrugged into the coat. “Now, get your coat, Cyril. Let’s see this done.”
He darted away, and Ella returned to the table and picked up the watch. Though old, with a cracked crystal, the timepiece was finely crafted. She turned it over and read the initials A.S. engraved on the back and edged with gold filigree. The glitter as it caught the candlelight reminded her of the glisten of diamonds under the light of hundreds of beeswax candles. Her gaze caught on her hands, raw, red and roughened by the harsh lye soap. She tucked the watch into her pocket.
“Are you ready, Cyril?” she called.
Her brother dashed back from the shadows. “Ready,” he chirped as he fastened the last button on his coat.
“Right, then.” She gave a curt nod. “Let’s return this watch to its owner before he discovers it gone.” And before her employer discovered her gone from her place of work.
“The Demon Earl had a coach and six, Ella.” Cyril’s young voice trilled with excitement as they stepped into the darkened street. “Do you think they’re demon horses?”
“Nonsense.”
Coach and six? She snorted. Such an overt display of wealth. But her bravado didn’t quite disguise the ripple of fear that radiated through her. Long ago rumors said The Demon Earl of Dundee had murdered his own father—after the man had thrown his wife, Ashton’s mother, from the castle tower. The rumors had swept the country for months. Of all the people for Cyril to have stolen from, why did he have to choose the son of a murderer turned murderer himself?
Ella huffed and then realized her brother still stared at her expectantly. “Sean was simply goading you, Cyril. You can’t be so gullible. Learn to question what you hear. Most likely, your Demon Earl is as tame as a kitten.” A lion cub, more like.
They rounded a corner near the church just as a drunk burst through a door. Ella snatched her brother out of the man’s path as the drunk staggered past, bleary eyed and mumbling loudly. She gripped Cyril tightly by the arm and hurried down the street.
Winter had arrived with a bitter chill. Feathery clouds surrounded the crescent moon as they hurried through the maze of Edinburgh’s alleys and twisted, cobblestone streets. Across the ravine, the castle stood high on its hill, overlooking the city.
“Why ever were you so far from home, Cyril?” Ella growled. “I told you to stay close to the wash room, didn’t I?”
“But, Ella, it was the Demon Ea—”
“If I hear one more word about this Demon Earl, I swear, I’ll box your ears,” she snapped as they turned onto Princes Street.
He clamped his mouth shut and they hurried past the church, headed for the bridge that spanned the ravine. The castle loomed large above them as Ella shooed her brother up the narrow stairs leading to the Royal Mile.
“Now, let’s find this Beehive Inn, return the watch, and hurry back. I’ve still three tubs yet to wash.”
They emerged onto the main thoroughfare as a fine, gilded carriage rumbled past. Ella glimpsed a young woman with fur-trimmed gloves tucking a perfectly curled ringlet behind an ear that dripped with diamonds.
Longing seized her. Not so long ago, she sat in such elegance. Those fur-trimmed gloves would have protected her hands—soft, milky-white hands, not the red, rough, and blistered ones she now shoved into her pockets. She rubbed her calloused fingers together. It didn’t matter. At least her hands kept her and Cyril fed and a roof, as miserable as it was, over their heads.
“Come,” she muttered as they turned up the street.
The Beehive Inn stood near the top of castle hill, a fine, large-windowed establishment sandwiched between two gray-stone buildings. She winced. She couldn’t very well waltz in through the front door.
“How did you get in, Cyril?” she asked. “Which window did you climb through?” Hopefully, it remained unlocked.
“Window?” He snorted. “I went through the back door, then up the stairs to the Demon…uh…the man’s room at the very top. Why would I go through a window when Sean showed me how to pick locks?” He rolled his eyes.
“Pick locks?” Ella cuffed him soundly on the ear. “I’m ashamed of you.”
“But he’s a Dem—”
“Don’t say it.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him across the street. “You will wash clothes with me for the next ten years—maybe longer.”
Cyril tossed her a sullen look, but wisely remained silent as they hurried around the corner of the inn. They arrived at the back door and Ella eyed the lock when the door suddenly opened. A tall man emerged, dressed in a fine gray coat and with a hat tucked under one arm.
Ella jumped back. “My lord,” she murmured as years of habit dipped her knees into a curtsey.
Too late, she realized her mistake. She’d forgotten she was dressed as a man. Quickly, she straightened and kept her head bowed as the man surveyed them.
“Cyril?” An astonished voice queried, then added in an even more shocked tone, “Ella? Ella MacAlpin?”
Ella snapped her head up. In the dim moonlight, she discerned Sir Stirling James’ handsome features. The previous spring, she’d grown to know him quite well. At half a dozen soirees and garden parties, they’d shared a passion for whist and endless glasses of lemonade. They’d made an unbeatable team. Then her father’s case had been reported in the papers. She froze in shame. Not only was she scandalously dressed in breeches, there wasn’t a soul in the ton who hadn’t discussed her father’s crime and her mother’s scandalous behavior.
Stirling’s keen eyes traveled over her. “I wondered where you two had vanished to,” the Scottish lord murmured. “I made inquiries, but no one knew.”
Ella curtseyed again. “My lord, forgive me. I do not wish to disturb you.”
She tightened her hold on Cyril’s hand and stepped back to leave, but Sir Stirling touched her arm. “Nonsense. This is a most fortuitous meeting. Come, I insist you both join me for a bite to eat.”
Did she really look that pitiful? She glimpsed Cyril’s wide-eyed enthusiasm and said to Sir Stirling, “Forgive me, my lord, but we’ve an errand to attend.” She edged toward the door.
The man frowned. “Nae, I must insist we speak. Your circumstances—”
“We are fine, my lord, truly.” Heaven above, she had no desire to discuss their circumstances. “Forgive us, but we really must be going.”
Stirling’s hand shot out across the doorway and blocked the way. “Ella, I insist. Come, now, what harm can dinner with an old friend do?”
If she knew one thing about the man, she knew he never gave up. “Can we meet for breakfast, my lord?” she bargained. “I have an important errand that cannot wait.”
Stirling hesitated, then his shoulders sagged. Relief flooded through her. She’d won. A gentleman to the bone, he found it hard to deny a lady.
He angled his head in acquiescence. “If you insist, Lady Ella.”
Lady Ella. Her heart twisted. She was ‘Ella the Washer Woman’ now. Still, she smiled. The man’s kindness touched her. “I fear that insist I must, my lord.” She inched toward the door.
Stirling grasped the knob and opened the door.
“Allow me, my lady.” He dipped his head in respect as he extended a hand toward her.
Her heartbeat quickened. He expected her to place her fingers in his. She couldn’t allow him to see her roughened hands. Ella smiled and started past him. He caught her elbow. Ella looked up in surprise.
He stared down at her, brows furrowed. “Swear you’ll meet me here in the morning, Ella. I’ll take you at your word.” His gaze shifted to Cyril. “You’ll see to it she comes, aye, lad?”
Ella stiffened. “I have my word still, at least,” she answered. “Tomorrow, my lord. I will be here.”
“Tomorrow, then.” He canted his head and released her. “Though it is most definitely against my better judgement to wait even that long,” he added with a rueful smile.
Ella pulled Cyril behind her and ducked inside the door. Warm air and the scent of savory meat caused her stomach to growl, Guilt stabbed. She and Cyril hadn’t eaten since morning. She’d let pride get in the way of feeding her brother. When they returned to their room, she would give him her share of bread.
“Let’s hurry,” she hissed, and walked quickly toward the servants’ stairs three steps ahead on the right. “With any luck, the room will be empty.”
Cyril pulled free of her hold and raced up the stairs. She frowned and hurried after him. He enjoyed this far too much.
She caught up with him at the top of the stairs and seized his arm. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”
He nodded, but with a devilish grin, and before she could chide him further, slipped through her grasp and darted down a plush hallway covered in thick Aubusson carpet. Oil lamps in brass brackets hung on the walls, illuminated oil paintings of the hunt in gilded frames. Apparently, this floor of the inn housed the wealthier guests. Ella slowed pace as the paintings sent her back in time, to her last summer at home when the princess had visited for the hunt. She nearly bumped into Cyril when he suddenly stopped before a door.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
Her brother scowled. “This is the room.”
She eyed the bottom of the door. No light spilled across the carpet. She gave the door a sharp rap. They waited. When no one answered, she cast a quick glance around. The hall remained empty.
She pushed her brother’s shoulder. “Hurry, then. Open the door.”
Cyril pulled a small leather case from his back pocket and removed two four-inch iron picks. He tossed the empty case at her and then set down to business. She watched, astonished, as he jiggled the picks. A moment later came a tiny click, and Cyril looked up at her, eyes wide with excitement.
Ella stared, alarmed. He’d obviously missed the entire point of their endeavors. Instead of righting a wrong, he saw their presence here as The Adventures of the Demon Earl, Act Two. Her brother should be in school, getting a proper, gentlemanly education. How could she work and keep him off the streets—and out of prison?
Cyril withdrew the picks and reached for the knob, but she knocked his hand aside. “No, young man, I will return the watch. You wait for me at the bottom of the stairs.”
A crestfallen look darkened his expression. “Fine,” he grumbled, and turned away.
“Wait,” she hissed before he’d taken three steps. “Where did you find the watch to begin with?”
He spun on his heel with an eager grin. “A leather satchel on the bed. Here, I’ll show you.”
At the strength of her glare, he gulped, spun on his heel, and dashed down the hallway toward the stairs. She waited until he’d vanished from sight, then faced the door. Her heart beat fast as she gripped the knob and slowly turned. No one cried out as she eased the door open six inches. Ella leaned forward and peered inside.
To her left, embers in the hearth cast a circle of light that bathed the legs of two overstuffed leather chairs and a table in a dull, orange glow. Directly ahead, a wall mirror reflected the right-hand, corner window. The open drapes provided a view of the alley below with the moon high in the sky. A soft, wool carpet covered the floor, and to her right, stood a large, four-poster bed. Her heart sank. There was no sign of the leather satchel on the counterpane.
“Fiddlesticks,” she muttered, and entered the room. Ella closed the door, then hurried to the bed. Please, she silently prayed, let the leather satchel be on the floor. No such luck.
She knelt beside the bed, lifted the counterpane and looked underneath into murky darkness. The possibility of webs and spiders arose. She hastily dropped the counterpane and grimaced. She wasn’t about to thrust her hand anywhere spiders might lurk. She stood and slipped her hand into her coat pocket. She’d simply leave the watch on the bed. Let him wonder how it got there.
As her fingers closed around the cool metal timepiece, voices sounded in the hall.
The door knob rattled.
Ella froze.
Damnation. Where to hide? She snapped her gaze onto the floor where the fabric of the counterpane met the wood. Out of the question. She whirled and spotted a wardrobe in the corner. In one sprint, she reached the wardrobe and yanked open the door. As the door behind her began to open, she dove inside the wardrobe. Her knee struck the lower edge of the wardrobe. Pain spiked up her leg. Tears stung as she squeezed against the clothes and grasped the door’s edge. She pulled it closed as the bedchamber’s door creaked open. Ella released the door and watched through the slit in the door.
Light spilled into the room as a plump, middle-aged maid entered carrying a small lamp.
“My lord, we didn’t expect you back so soon,” the woman said. “I’ll just light the lamps and stir the fire, aye?”
A man stepped into view. He stood at least six feet, and his brooding scowl reminded Ella of a particularly beautiful picture a friend once drew of the biblical Samson. His dark clothes and black, shoulder-length hair strengthened the severity of his scowl. Ella understood why he’d been dubbed the Demon Earl. She glimpsed his strong chin and the curl of his chiseled lips in the instant before he stepped from view near the window.
Ella drew back in alarm. Did he intend to remain in the room? Heavens, what if he decided to change his clothes? As if beckoned by her thoughts, a coat slipped from the hook above and fell over her head. She clapped a hand over her mouth and muffled a screech of surprise as the coat slithered down her body and covered her feet.
“Is there anything else you need, my lord?” the maid asked as she lit the frosted, cut-glass lamp on the bedside table.
The man didn’t respond.
Apparently, the woman was accustomed to his rude manner. “I’ll be off then, my lord,” she continued, unperturbed. “A good evening to you.” With a curtsey, she left the room.
Ella’s heart pounded in her ears. Why, oh why hadn’t she simply tossed the watch into the room to begin with? What had possessed her to look for the accursed leather satchel? She could have simply slid the watch along the floor and left. She’d be out of the inn and on her way back to the wash room by now. A loud knock on the door made her jump. A fresh avalanche of clothes piled onto her head. She smothered a gasp.
“Enter,” the man at the window called.
Ella shoved the clothes aside in time to see the newcomer. Her mouth dropped open.
Sir Stirling James strode to the fireplace. “You are a difficult man to find, Ashton.”
“It’s too late. The trap has sprung,” The Demon Earl murmured in a deep baritone. “I will not be in the running, unless you can find me a wife before ten o’clock.”
“A wife?” Stirling cocked his head. “What of Anne?”
“Anne,” Ashton came into view near the hearth and folded his arms across his broad chest as he stared into the fire. “Anne and I parted ways yesterday. The small matter of her unborn child—not mine.” His lip curled in a scornful scowl.
Stirling lifted a brow. “What happens at ten?”
Firelight flickered over the tense play of muscle on Ashton’s lean jaw. “At ten, the opera ends when my grandmother arrives in the private parlor and learns I haven’t wed.”
Silence fell, the only sound the tick, tick, tick of the mantle clock.
Ella’s finger cramped, and something tickled her nose. A hair? She blew a breath, and the unseen hair shifted before it could make her sneeze.
Stirling was the first to speak. “Bother it all, this is rotten timing. We’ve only four hours, then.”
“We?” Ashton gave a bitter laugh. “I’m cursed. You’d do better to leave before my luck affects you.”
“Nonsense,” Stirling chuckled. “I don’t believe in curses. Perhaps, your grandmother will understand?”
Ashton snorted.
The infernal hair teased Ella’s nose as another tickled her cheek. She wiggled and huffed as silently as she could, but no matter which way she twitched, the hairs returned. She scowled through the crack and mentally commanded the men to leave, but to her dismay, Stirling settled into a chair as Ashton sat in the chair to his right. Heavens, did they plan to chat all night?
Again, a knock sounded on the door, and again, Ashton responded with a curt, “Enter.”
The middle-aged maid returned, this time with a letter on a silver tray. “A message, my lord,” she announced as she crossed the room.
With a nod of thanks, Ashton waited until she’d left, then tore open the envelope. He scanned the letter’s contents, his face impassive.
“What is it?” Stirling prompted when Ashton looked up.
Ashton crumpled the paper. “Duncan is here with the news that his wife is not only pregnant, but expecting twins.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “It is…too late for me.”
The ticklish hairs returned with a vengeance. Ella sneezed before she could halt the action. The wardrobe door flew wide and, with her feet tangled in the mound of clothes, she pitched forward and sprawled across the floor.