‘I must say I envy Hensleigh,’ murmured her unwelcome guest.
Lucy stiffened, but continued polishing so that the table wobbled noisily.
‘Lucky fellow,’ he went on, ‘having a wench willing to clean his lodgings and warm his bed.’
Everything inside her stopped as well as the polishing rag. And the temper her grandparents had tried so hard to curb slipped its leash. Slowly she straightened and faced him, the dusting rag clenched in her fist. ‘Wench?’ She restrained the urge to throw the rag in his face.
His brows rose. ‘A poor choice of words,’ he said. ‘You could do better than Hensleigh.’
‘Really?’ Rage slammed through her, but she kept her voice dulcet. ‘You, for example?’
He smiled. ‘If you like. If you tell me where he is.’
‘They say it’s a wise child who knows its own father,’ she said, her stomach twisting.
James wondered if he’d been hit on the head with a brick as the implications slammed into him. No one had suggested that the woman in Hensleigh’s lodgings was his daughter!
This story takes place a little earlier than the rest of my stories, in 1802. Some years back I wrote a short story called The Funeral, and for various reasons needed an earlier setting. This was the genesis of James and Lucy’s story. A throwaway line about her father’s gambling debts gave me the lead into this book. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed finding out more about them.
Readers familiar with the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century will recognise James’s godfather, Charles James Fox. Fox’s real-life love affair with the courtesan Elizabeth Armistead is one of the world’s great love stories, and I was delighted to be able to include them in this book.
In Debt to the Earl
Elizabeth Rolls
ELIZABETH ROLLS lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia with her husband, teenage sons, dogs and too many books. She is convinced that she will achieve a state of blessed Nirvana when her menfolk learn to put their own dishes in the dishwasher without being asked and cease flexing their testosterone over the television remote.
Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, and invites you to contact her via email at [email protected].
For Sharon.
For Sharon. We share a birthday and a love of tea. You share your daughters with me, and we’ve stood beside too many soccer pitches to count, cheering each other’s kids on. This one is for you.
Contents
March 1802
‘Damn it, Paget.’ James, Lord Cambourne, stared down at the battered, unconscious face of his young cousin, Nick Remington. ‘What the hell happened? Has the doctor been?’
Nick’s manservant, Paget, nodded. ‘Yes, m’lord. I sent for the doctor immediately. He’s just left.’
‘And?’
Paget tucked the blankets more securely around his young master. ‘Just bruising, a cracked rib and a knock to the head.’
‘Just?’ James took exception to the servant’s soothing tone. ‘For God’s sake, Paget! You’re taking it mighty calmly! Does the boy make a habit of this?’
‘No!’ Paget glanced at Nick, who shifted restlessly, and lowered his voice. ‘My lord, if we might go into the sitting room? Doctor Greaves said he ought to sleep—’
‘James?’ The voice was barely a whisper. ‘That you?’
The blue eyes, one distinguished by a black eye of impressive proportions, were open, if bleary. Under the scrapes and bruises, his face was nearly as white as his pillow.
‘Yes,’