The Lord Next Door Read online

  Before she reached the halfway point of the alley, she felt certain she was being followed. She’d left Tillman and Sons with an empty satchel—anyone could figure out that she now carried money with her. And she was a woman alone. Why had she chosen the luncheon hour for her shortcut, when all the coachmen and grooms were obviously inside enjoying their meals? She increased her pace, debating whether a confrontation would deter a thief.

  She was only two blocks from home!

  So she picked up her skirts and ran. She heard pounding steps behind her almost immediately, but she didn’t risk looking over her shoulder until she came out on the street. As she made the turn to stay on the pavement, she saw a dirty, skinny little boy, not more than eight, dressed in ragged clothing. He seemed even more desperate than she was, for he continued to follow her. Two men walked a block ahead of her, and she felt safe enough to fumble in her reticule. She grabbed the first coin she found—a shilling—and threw it over her shoulder. With a glance, she saw the boy fall to his knees and scramble for the money.

  Only after Victoria had crossed the street and left him behind did she allow herself to slow down and catch her breath. A year ago, she would never have been able to run like that. Helping Mrs. Wayneflete with the cleaning had obviously improved her stamina.

  The little boy had disappeared, and she hoped he would buy himself a hot meal. Biting her lip, she couldn’t help shuddering. Would his life soon be hers?

  She passed the home of the Earl of Banstead, right next door to hers. The house lived under a cloud of scandal many years old, but one that Victoria had been deemed too young to hear about. She’d given up questioning her housekeeper about the servants’ gossip years before.

  She couldn’t imagine that Tom still lived there—surely she would have had some word from him.

  She came to a stop and stared up at the huge town house with its gleaming windows and impressive entranceway. Was the answer to her problems in there?

  But she had never been an impulsive woman, so she resumed walking home to help Mrs. Wayneflete with dinner—and came up short before she reached her property. The idea rolling around in her mind was so wildly impulsive that she felt the need to give in to it immediately, before she could change her mind. Her heart pounded, her gloves dampened with perspiration. Was Tom the answer to her prayers?

  Would he marry her?

  Oh, what was she thinking? A kind man like him, twenty-six years of age, would surely be married already. That was probably why he’d stopped writing to her. He’d met a girl and—

  But what if he wasn’t married? She could be a servant’s wife. She’d become quite the frugal housekeeper, and she knew she could be content with Tom. She hadn’t wanted to marry. It had been too difficult to flirt with men. Since she loved nothing better than to be alone with her music or her needlework, she had thought that would content her. It had been a relief when her mother had given up on marriage plans for her, when her father’s disapproving looks had turned to indifference. He had always made sure Victoria knew it would be difficult to find a husband for her.

  But now marriage might be the only answer. Could this actually work? Could she save her mother—and herself?

  She marched up to the Banstead front door and knocked before she could change her mind. Too late, she realized she should have gone around to the servants’ entrance in the back. But someone was already opening the door.

  An imposing butler, wearing black livery and a white wig, bowed to her. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon. Forgive my impertinence, but I am looking for a manservant who once worked for you—and might still work for you, of course.”

  The butler stepped aside, and she entered the two-story entrance hall. A graceful marble staircase curved up one wall, a corridor led to the rear of the home, and several closed doors hid other rooms.

  The butler studied her. “The servant’s name, miss?”

  “I never knew his last name,” she said, “but his mother was once the cook here. The boy’s name was Tom, and he would be twenty-six years old by now.”

  “Miss, I have been with the earl for nearly thirty years, and I can assure you that—”

  A door suddenly opened, and a tall man stepped into the hall, quite taking her breath away with the power of his presence. He was dressed in somber colors with the most expensive fabric and cut. He had dark brown hair, cut close to his head as if to hide wayward curls he couldn’t control. Though some might not call him handsome, his face with its intimidating cheekbones and dark, heavy brows was definitely striking. But it was his eyes that had unnerved her. They were the palest blue, frosty with intelligence, a winter glance in springtime.

  He studied her more intently than any man had the right to do to a stranger. She lifted her chin and tried to appear calm, when inside her every insecurity was bubbling to the surface.

  The man turned to his butler. “I’ll handle this, Smith.”

  “Very good, my lord.” After giving a bow, Smith left the entrance hall and motioned the footman to leave with him.

  This could not be the earl, who Victoria knew was an elderly man, so it must be his son. She’d always gotten the impression from Tom that the young viscount was often away at school, for he seemed to have not overly influenced the household. Unless he was part of the scandal…

  “I am Viscount Thurlow. And you are…”

  Memories came flooding back of countless parties where she stuttered talking to every man, but she forced them away. She wasn’t that girl anymore. “Miss Victoria Shelby, my lord. I live next door.”

  “I know the family name.”

  “You do?”

  “You live next door,” he said dryly.

  She tried to smile. “Oh yes, of course. My lord, I am looking for—”

  “A servant named Tom,” he interrupted. “I overheard.”

  “Does he still live here? If not, perhaps I could speak with your steward for a forwarding address.”

  His examination made her feel uncomfortable and even annoyed.

  “Miss Shelby, there is no other way to say this except to be blunt. I’m Tom.”

  Chapter 2

  David Thurlow was ready for any reaction, from hysterics to satisfaction, but Victoria Shelby just blinked up at him slowly, her face draining of color. He felt a stirring of something, a jolt of emotion that escaped his usual iron control. He hesitated, for once unsure what he should do.

  And it cost him, for she suddenly whirled away, flung open the door, and ran down the front steps. He stopped at the doorway and watched her run next door. With a sigh, he retreated inside. He had always worried that his lies would be taken as a betrayal, and evidently he’d been right.

  Could this day get any worse, after the second housekeeper in two months had just quit?

  He’d spent much of his childhood trying to meet Victoria Shelby in person. It had been a game between them, and she’d proved herself a worthy player by always managing to sneak away before he could catch a glimpse. The mystery of her had lured him on, as much as the kindness she’d shown to a lonely little boy.

  She was…not what he had expected. She was a plump little hen dressed in unrelieved black. The hair peeking out from beneath her bonnet was a pale blond, as if it couldn’t decide what vivid color to be. In those brief moments when their gazes had met, he saw big wide eyes, the most flattering of her features, the vivid color of amethysts, so violet as to seem unreal. They had flashed the powerful emotions of desperation and despair before she’d fled. What had happened to the optimistic young girl he once thought he knew? She’d been calm and sensible as a child, her words infused with a quiet joy. He’d admired her simple life and her siblings, and had read her journal entries to him with a voraciousness that even then he’d recognized as envy.

  Whyever would she be looking for…Tom? He’d almost forgotten about the pretend life he’d created to escape his problems. He’d known even at ten years old that his father would be angry if David
had encouraged a real friendship. One simple lie had expanded each year into a larger web of lies. All because of his father.

  David’s whole life had revolved around his father’s whims, and the old man was still exerting his control over the household from his sickbed.

  Ever since his father’s illness, and David’s subsequent move back into the family town house, David’s orderly life had spiraled out of control. He hadn’t wanted to deal with his father, a man who for years he had spoken to only once a month concerning business matters of the estate. The earl had done enough harm to the family name and position, and it was time for him to retire to the country and do whatever bitter old men did.

  Except the earl wouldn’t go. It was as if he thrived on making David’s life a hell.

  David stepped back into his study, his personal retreat in the house. But even amid his favorite scents of old books and beeswax polish, he could not relax.

  He glanced at the precise stack of mail that awaited him, and wished he hadn’t. The top letter was addressed in the scrawled, sloppy hand of his cousin, the wastrel who would inherit the Banstead estate if David did not marry and produce an heir. He was probably wheedling for an increase in his allowance again. If only David could be rid of him. He could not let his own hard work be wasted. Marriage would seem to be the only solution.

  He shook his head in resignation. Twice he had asked for a woman’s hand in marriage, only to find that no one of the right bloodlines would have him. He’d made the mistake of fancying himself madly in love with the first woman, and though he thought she loved him in return, she hadn’t fought to keep him when her family had refused their permission to marry. It was then that David had begun to realize that his father’s scandals would continue to taint his own life.

  David had approached his second attempt at marriage with a much more practical mind, knowing he would never allow his heart—suspect as it was—to be involved again. He had thought he’d planned the campaign well, choosing the daughter of a family that surely could not refuse a future earl. Noble yes, but the finances were not quite what they once were. But refuse him they had, leaving David full of anger and frustration. After that last debacle two years before, he had completely retreated from society’s affairs until he was ready to plan a new strategy for marriage. He was glad to avoid the kind of parties where he’d been stared at, whispered about, and made the object of an occasional dare.

  But there was still the puzzle of Victoria, and what she wanted with Tom after all these years. He’d been a lonely child with an ill mother when, from his nursery window, he’d watched a little girl hide something beneath a bench in her family garden. He’d found that journal and written in it, meaning to tease her. The fictional identity he’d created of a kitchen boy suited his father’s constant demand for privacy where the lower classes were concerned. It was also David’s way of escaping his life. What started as a lark resulted in his only childhood friendship, since all the other boys of his age went off to school, and his mother’s health would not permit him to join them.

  Too late, he’d realized he could not undo his lies without hurting Victoria.

  Now, ten years later, the revelation of his identity had obviously hurt her. His childhood curiosity came rushing back; he had to find out everything about her.

  Victoria opened her town house door and slammed it shut behind her as her heart pounded and her breath came much too fast. She couldn’t make sense of her racing thoughts, could only hear “I’m Tom,” over and over again.

  Oh God, she’d been such a fool.

  “Miss Victoria?” Mrs. Wayneflete came into the entrance hall, wiping her hands on her apron. “Did everything go well at the shop?”

  It took her a moment to remember her first reason for leaving the house today.

  “Of course, Mrs. Wayneflete.” How she managed to make her voice sound so normal, she couldn’t explain. “Mr. Tillman gave me a fair price. I’ll be down to help you with dinner shortly.”

  She hastily began to climb the stairs and pretended that she didn’t see the housekeeper’s confused frown.

  In her room, Victoria closed the door and leaned against it, suddenly exhausted. She knew there were other items on her list to do today besides helping with dinner, but at just this moment, she couldn’t think about anything but Tom—

  Viscount Thurlow.

  Why was she feeling so betrayed? They’d shared writing in a journal, not an undying commitment.

  But she’d trusted him, confided in him, believed in him.

  And it had all been a lie.

  She’d spent six years writing her deepest secrets…to a viscount. Her face burned with embarrassment, and she couldn’t stop feeling a rising tide of anger and despair.

  Her last plan to save her mother winked out of existence.

  Surely that was why she found herself crying. She pulled a handkerchief from a drawer and blew her nose, taking satisfaction in its unladylike loudness.

  She could spend no more time dwelling on this mistake—oh, why had she even allowed impulse to guide her to his door?

  It was done—no one need know of her foolish idea to marry Tom.

  She washed her face in cold water, dried it, pasted on a false smile, and went down to the kitchen. If Mrs. Wayneflete noticed anything unusual, the dear woman said nothing.

  It took until early afternoon the next day for David’s curiosity to be satisfied. The investigator he’d hired presented his formal report at luncheon and went away paid handsomely. The money was worth it, for David never approached anything without knowing every fact.

  He drank his coffee and opened the folder of papers. As he read, he eventually allowed his drink to grow cold. Victoria’s mother had been widowed ten months before—which explained the mourning gown. Victoria’s foolish father, once so successful in business, had let several bad decisions erase his empire. He’d left his wife and daughters with nothing but a mortgage that had since been purchased by a cousin, who was on his way home to England to claim the town house. The man had his own family, and did not want strangers—relatives though they were—to intrude on him. The Shelbys had no other family to take them in, and would be forced to support themselves somehow. He imagined shy Victoria confronted by the hard work required of a governess. She’d be overrun by the children.

  And now she’d come looking for Tom. Why?

  Because maybe he’d been her only childhood friend beside her sisters. Such thoughts made him uncomfortable, for he had to admit he’d considered her a friend, too. It was hard for him to remember how innocent he’d once been, before his father had ruined the family name.

  As a child, the longer he had written to her, the more his fictional life had chafed at him. He’d wanted to tell her about his sick mother, about so many things that Tom the cook’s son wouldn’t know. But he’d been trapped in his lies. Then after his mother had died, he couldn’t put into words the loss he’d felt, couldn’t tell Victoria the truth, so he’d just stopped writing. He’d gone away to school after years of tutors, glad to escape from his father, whom David blamed for his mother’s death.

  David and Victoria had been so close as children. Would she come to him to help solve her problems?

  There was a brisk knock on the dining room door, and Smith the butler entered. With a single look from Smith, both footmen bowed and left the room.

  David sighed, already guessing the gist of what was to come. “What is it now, Smith?”

  “The previous housekeeper”—the butler no longer said her name, as if she no longer existed—“has told the upstairs maids that they answer to the downstairs maid, and not to me. Forgive me for disturbing you with this, my lord, but my authority must not be questioned.”

  David sighed. “Please tell me you’ve placed an advertisement for a new housekeeper.”

  “Heavens, no, my lord. I will find the right employee without resorting to such public displays of our…problems. Now if you’d be so good as to meet with the maids
.”

  David didn’t need this. He had an important railway meeting to host soon, and since the directors’ families needed to attend as a diversion, he’d been up to his elbows in party details that were normally a woman’s domain. And he’d thought he could count on his housekeeper’s help.

  Bracing his forehead on his hand, David looked down at the report on the Shelby family. There was a housekeeper to find, a party to plan, his wastrel cousin to deal with, his father to placate—all the things a wife would take care of.

  “Tom” could do nothing to help Victoria, but with one decision, David would solve everyone’s problems.

  He would marry Victoria Shelby.

  She was not the woman his father would have picked for him, but that was almost a grim pleasure. Although she was not of noble birth, she was long bred for the duties required of her—he remembered her writing about her studies of the feminine arts. And the most important duty would be providing him with an heir to secure the family fortune with his own line.

  For a moment, he felt like his father, who demanded heirs of his mother even though David had already been born. But this was not the same situation, and he could not allow himself to worry about Victoria handling a pregnancy. She was a healthy woman, one who couldn’t refuse his proposal as other women had done. He didn’t even feel guilty for taking advantage of her desperation. After all, it would not be difficult to be the wife of a future earl. Women lived to plan parties, didn’t they?

  He remembered Victoria as shy and kind, a girl who worried about hurting the servants’ feelings as much as her family’s. She had no great mission in life, as some women had, to reform society or negate poverty. She would cast little scandal on a family already brimming with its own. And Victoria could deal with his father and his household, leaving David free to pursue his business interests.

  Everything figured out before dinner. The day was looking up. Now all he had to do was tell the bride.