Page 1 of Captured by the Earl (The Secret Crusaders #2)

CHAPTER 1

L ondon Society News:

What’s the difference between a betrothal and an arrangement?

Not a great deal, in this writer’s humble opinion.

Of course one is a formal entity and the other a mere assumption, yet this is more semantics than anything. Take the arrangement of Lady Emma and a certain absent lord. No banns have been read, yet there is no doubt.

Bells will soon ring.

“You are the most fortunate lady in the ton .”

If only they knew.

“How did you snare the Earl of Peyton, the prime catch of the season?”

The term “snare” may be an exaggeration.

“Is anyone not excited for you?”

Perhaps the Earl of Peyton….

Lady Emma Sinclair smiled serenely at the group of excited young debutantes. “I am most fortunate. Peyton is so many things. Kind, giving, charitable.”

Blissfully unaware.

“And powerful, handsome and rich as all that,” a debutante giggled. She then sobered. “You must miss him terribly.”

“Of course. He’s been in America for three months now, and we do not yet know when he will return.” Emma clasped her white-gloved hands. “I do miss him so.”

As the women commiserated with exaggerated sighs and encouraging words, an elderly lord entered her view. She straightened. “Ladies, if you will excuse me, I have a matter to which I must attend.”

The women nodded dreamily, their expressions ranging from good-natured kindness to bald jealously, with most showing at least a sliver of both, as Emma walked from the small alcove into the suffocating crush of the Carlyle affair.

The glittering facade of the ton was on full display. Carved wooden tables and velvety settees furnished the room, surrounded by fashionable guests and the invisible servants who tended to their every whim. Lords and ladies conversed, drank and danced in dizzying excess, enjoying lives filled with little substance and even less care. Gilded mirrors lined ivory walls, casting fiery rainbows from dozens of cut crystal chandeliers, and reflecting her, with a pale blue dress that contrasted perfectly with her golden brown hair and hazel eyes.

Emma fashioned a perfect smile as she padded to the refreshment table. The scent of freshly baked bread, creamy cheeses and sweet fruits wafted from a generous display, yet even though she acted appropriately riveted, the fare held no appeal. Instead she waited. Three, two, one…

“Lady Emma, what a pleasure to see you again!” The elderly lord grinned from over a mountain of delicacies. “You look well.”

Emma feigned surprise. “And you, as always, Lord Charlton. A true pleasure.”

“How is Peyton? Still in America with his ailing friend?”

“I’m afraid so.” She sighed. “With no return date in sight.”

Charlton frowned. “A pity that. Any recent letters?”

She hid her smile. “How kind of you to ask. He continues to write as often as he ever did.” Letter count to date: zero. “As usual, he had much to say about the upcoming vote on orphans’ rights. He is hoping everyone will vote in favor of such a worthy cause. Of course, he knows someone with your intellect and compassion would support it.”

The lord puffed out his chest. “Just so. Tell him he can count on me.”

She gave a genuine smile. “I shall do so as soon as I next communicate with him.”

Letter count to date: Still zero.

“Lady Emma, may I have a word?”

Emma maintained her smile at the no-nonsense request, or rather command, from Priscilla Hawkins, the Duchess of Bradenton. Married to one of the most powerful dukes in the ton , the blond-haired, emerald-eyed beauty commanded attention all on her own.

The lord straightened, yet Emma remained serene as she stared at her best friend.

“Please excuse me.”

“Of course,” he said, his eyes already darting back to the excessive spread.

Emma held her head high as she followed the duchess through the throngs of revelers, nodding to beaming well-wishers. Later she would make her perfunctory rounds, sharing tidbits from imaginary letters as she collected promises of favorable votes, but for now she glided through a set of double doors into a garden brilliant with color. The scent of gardenias drifted on a cool breeze, a perfumer’s masterpiece amidst nature’s bounty.

Priscilla glanced around, and, at the confirmation they were alone, put her hands on her hips. “Explain.”

Emma blinked. “Explain?”

“Do not feign innocence.” Priscilla held up a finger. “You promised you would dispel the rumors today.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did.” The duchess gave a pointed look. “Yet you were just discussing Peyton’s letters.” She lowered her voice. “What happens if – when – he returns?”

Likely, he would put her on a boat and send her to America. Or perhaps a raft. If he was truly angry, a log.

Unease soured her stomach, yet Emma pushed it aside. The old Emma may have succumbed to such fears, but now she faced them with poise and bravery.

And if she kept repeating that to herself, eventually it would be true.

“Why should I surrender my ability to–” She hesitated, lowered her voice. “Influence lords because of fear? Peyton’s trip has already lasted three months.”

“Three months that were supposed to be two,” Priscilla pointed out.

“Or which could stretch to six,” Emma countered.

“He will be back.”

Yes, he would. Anxiety rose again, amidst other emotions: anticipation, excitement, satisfaction . She pushed them aside. She would no longer succumb to such impossible yearnings. “I have plans for when he returns.”

“Does it involve jumping in the sea and swimming to America?”

“It might.”

Priscilla folded her arms across her chest.

Emma cringed. “I was going to do it…”

“And?”

“Do you know what it’s like to be betrothed to a man who bestows respect and admiration simply by association?”

Priscilla raised an eyebrow.

Emma sighed. “Yes, well, you are married to a duke. But for those of us without such connections, it is a rare experience. Not that I care about looking good for others,” she swiftly added. “But look at what I can accomplish. People actually listen to me.” She turned, started to pace. “If I said we were no longer betrothed–”

“Were never betrothed,” Priscilla cut in.

“I never actually said we were betrothed. I simply maintained we have an arrangement, which is true, and people assumed I meant betrothal.”

Priscilla’s eyes turned incredulous. “What sort of arrangement do you have with the Earl of Peyton?”

Emma heated. “If you must know, we have an arrangement to always say a friendly hello when we pass each other on the street.”

“For goodness’ sake!”

“It all started very innocent.” Emma clasped her hands. “Actually, if one were to inquire, you are the one who started it. This never would have happened if you hadn’t asked if I was betrothed to Peyton.”

Priscilla gaped. “You’re the one who replied, ‘Why, of course!’”

Emma shrugged. “We both knew neither the question nor the answer was serious. Yet the jest was lost on the lady who overheard the exchange, Constance Welleby.”

“Who told Betty Thompson.”

“Who told the Carlyle sisters.”

“Who told almost everyone else in London.”

“And so, really, it truly isn’t my fault everyone believes there to be an arrangement, if not a formal betrothal, between me and the earl.”

Priscilla narrowed her eyes. “And when everyone still believes it three months later?”

Emma smiled. “That is entirely my fault.”

Priscilla rubbed her forehead. “If you are interested in Peyton, you should tell him when he returns.”

Heat warmed Emma’s cheeks. “This isn’t about Peyton.”

Priscilla cocked her head to the side.

“It’s the truth.” Sort of. “When it first happened, I was going to correct the misunderstanding immediately, but before I could, two lords inquired about Peyton. While in discussions, I was able to…” She lowered her voice. “Influence them. The next day, another lord shared information about an upcoming vote, and again, I made a difference. I’ve done more for our cause in the past three months than in the past year, even as a member of the–” She glanced around once more, whispered. “Distinguished Ladies of Purpose.”

Priscilla’s features softened. The duchess was the founder and leader of their secret social action group, which the ton knew as a sewing guild. “I’m grateful for your assistance, yet your position is a tenuous one at best, a disastrous one at worst. Peyton may seem lighthearted and carefree, yet something darker lurks underneath it all.”

“Peyton is a good man!” The words came instinctually. “He’s the most even-tempered lord in the ton . He would never be involved in anything illicit.”

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.” Priscilla gazed at her carefully. “I’m simply saying there is more to the earl than apparent. If you think he will simply laugh this off, you are mistaken. You are underestimating him.” Priscilla looked at her sternly for a moment, then sighed. “Are you certain this is only about social action? A few months ago, you showed some interest–”

“I am over that,” Emma interrupted, smoothing down her dress. “I’ll admit, I did have some feelings for Peyton, yet that is in the past. I want something more. Someone who makes a difference.” She notched up her chin. “Someone who wants to change the world.”

Priscilla ran a gloved hand along a blooming pink and yellow rose. “Peyton is active in Parliament and always votes for measures to better society.”

“Yes, he is a good, good man. But after seeing you and Bradenton…” Emma’s voice trailed off.

“Oh, Emma.” Priscilla softened. “You desire a love match?”

“Yes, well.” Emma straightened. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “Why do I think I’m not going to like this?”

“It’s perfect. I made a list of suitable lords, only instead of ranking them according to title, wealth, position, etc. I choose different criteria.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

Emma smiled. “True love.”

Priscilla opened her mouth, closed it. “Hoping to find a love match is reasonable. Rating lords for a love match is a…” She waved her hand.

“Unique? Stupendous? The absolutely best idea you’ve heard all night?” Emma winked. “I knew you’d think so.”

“You don’t want to know what I think.”

“Oh, hush.” Emma lightened the words with a smile. “I know how it sounds, but it’s the perfect plan. I’ll simply evaluate the lords for the characteristics I find appealing.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

“That’s why it didn’t work out with Peyton,” Emma took a step through the path. The heavy scent of roses surrounded her. “Even though I feel… I mean felt something, he didn’t return it. We simply weren’t suitable. I need someone who wants to make a difference, and I know the perfect person.”

“I shudder to ask.”

“Lord Stanton.”

Priscilla paused.

“You must like him. He is kind and generous and always supports our causes.”

Priscilla pricked her finger on a thorn and quickly pulled it back. “I do like him. Yet are you truly in love with him?”

“Well, of course not. But I could be.”

“ Could be and will be are two very different entities entirely.” Priscilla gestured with her hand. “It should happen naturally, like with me and Edmund. And it will never happen if everyone thinks you’re betrothed to Peyton.”

“That’s the beauty of it.” Emma grinned. “Not only does the supposed betrothal give me the chance to influence lords, but it shows Stanton what he’s missing.”

Priscilla looked dubious. “Why don’t you just pursue Stanton? He’s well-regarded and would provide a similar amount of influence.”

Emma shrugged. “You can’t rush these things.”

Priscilla tapped her foot on the grassy floor. “With your last betrothal, you didn’t even bother to inform the groom!”

“Technically, that wasn’t my fault. You see Constance Welleby told Betty…”

“Emma–”

“You can’t rush a real betrothal. I have a plan, and it’s going to be perfect. I will end the betrothal–” Emma smiled wider. “As soon as I influence a few more lords.” And if something else lurked behind her not wanting to end it, she wouldn’t think about that.

Priscilla sighed. “Just make it soon, because when Peyton returns, he’s going to be very, very mad.”

That wasn’t true.

He was going to be furious.

Philip Fitzgerald, Earl of Peyton, took a deep breath of cool English air. It was brisk and fragrant, fringed with the subtle and yet poignant scent of gardenias and other flowers grown to cover the less pleasant odors of London. Like the scent, the simple sight of England touched something deep within him. He had been gone longer than usual, yet it could not be helped.

He was lucky to have returned at all.

After a tumultuous, if successful mission, he was back. He stood outside the bustling townhouse, jumping almost literally back into the ton . His quest had been his last, at least of the type that would take him from his home for months, although he would continue smaller and more subtle measures. Now he embarked on a rather different adventure, one of a more domestic nature.

“I hear congratulations are in order.”

Startled, Philip turned to several widely smiling lords, acquaintances with whom he had a trifling relationship. He narrowed his eyes. The lords could not possibly know about his work, the secrets he kept from even his friends. Likely, they had mistaken him for someone else.

He nodded as he walked past, then smiled at an elderly lord he knew from Parliament.

The man grinned. “Peyton, so good to see you returned. She must be delighted!”

She? Senses honed from years of investigations sharpened. The lord must be referring to his mother, yet “delighted” was an unlikely term for the dowager countess. While she would indubitably be elated for the return of her only son, the most proper lady would merely smile serenely, hiding her feelings as befit her position. Hardly what one would call delighted.

“I’m certain she is.” He inclined his head to the doorway, where elegant couples strolled in and out of the four-story residence. “Is she in attendance?”

“Indeed.” The man’s cheeks turned ruddy. “You mean to surprise her, do you? She will be quite pleased. Better hurry.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Others are admiring her, if you know what I mean.”

Philip stared at the man in shock. His mother was not unattractive, yet why would the man share such a lurid detail?

When he ascended the steps, matters became truly strange.

He received another “Congratulations.”

Then another.

And another.

And another half-dozen.

Not simply from acquaintances, but from friends and strangers, matrons and debutantes. They were accompanied with other inexplicable comments, teasing of lost freedom and mentions of shackling . Although reminiscent of his mission, they were said with good-natured smiles and carefree calmness, revealing his operation and the secrets behind it had not been compromised.

They all centered around a single person:

Her.

For it became increasingly clear the woman to whom they referred was not his mother.

“She is going to be overcome with joy,” Lady Clara squealed. “Have you seen her yet?”

“Not yet, but soon.”

And then Lady Constance flushed pink. “Oh, you’re surprising her! I cannot wait to see the look on her face.”

“No doubt she will be astounded.”

Francis Carlyle exclaimed, “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you find her?”

“She and I are going to have a very long talk.”

Even Lord Trenton gave him a malicious grin, “All good men lose their freedom eventually.”

That was the moment uneasy suspicions became a rapidly elucidating reality.

New questions arose, even as the truth shone like an explosive, as unexpected as it was dangerous. He had dealt with countless adversaries in his life, literally as well as figuratively, yet none like this. Who was she? Where was she?

Did she actually believe he’d allow her to escape?

If so, she did not truly know him. Which, when one considered the true circumstances of his clandestine activities, could be called fair.

Yet like any good investigator, he needed information. He knew just the man to provide it.

He turned until he saw his quarry. A raised eyebrow, gone as quickly as it appeared, was the only surprise Edmund Hawkins, the Duke of Bradenton, betrayed before he gestured him forward. Philip gave somber nods to several more well-wishers, as he strode into a luxurious sitting room that had been opened for guests. He locked it behind him.

The room was decorated in shades of emerald and gold, with overstuffed amber couches and inlaid mahogany tables. A large marble fireplace contained a crackling fire, bathing the room in comforting warmth. Cinnamon and other spices scented the air.

Bradenton travelled to a gleaming wooden sideboard and poured them each a generous splash of brandy. “I have something to say to you.”

Philip took the offered glass. “If it is congratulations, I may have to call you out.”

Bradenton gave him a long, assessing look. “I take it people have been applauding you.”

“To an appalling amount.”

Bradenton took a sip of the golden liquid. “Can I surmise from your expression you have no idea why?”

“Not the foggiest.”

Bradenton nodded at the glass. “In that case, my original query would not be appropriate.”

“What was your original query?”

“How could you not inform me you were betrothed?”

Every. Muscle. Clenched.

“Can I assume by your expression you are unaware of this fact?”

Betrothed. The word represented danger, the power to change a life. In his position it was inevitable, yet it would be his timing, his choice. Likely the lady in question thought he was an easy target, with his carefree charm and calm, unassuming manner.

Soon she would learn just how powerful he was.

“Who?”

Bradenton held his gaze. “Before I tell you, take a deep breath. I do not know all the details, but she is a good person. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regr–”

“Who?” he repeated it stronger, louder. Consequences swirled, their exact depth and breadth unforeseeable, yet their presence inescapable. One thing was certain: No one would dictate his future.

The lady who dared would soon find all control wrested away from her.

“Do you promise you won’t do anything rash?”

He glared at Bradenton. That he was responding at all was testament to the strength of their friendship, and his respect. “If you are asking whether I will harm her, the answer is no. I do not harm ladies. Will I do what it takes to control the situation? Absolutely.”

Bradenton stared at him for a moment more. “Emma Sinclair.”

The world tilted.

People were looking at her.

No, not just looking. Staring, whispering, as if aware of some deep, dark unknown secret. Words drifted from various conversations, her name, his name.

“What is happening?” Emma whispered to Priscilla.

Priscilla frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe a scandal?”

“But they’re looking at me.” Emma took a breath scented with the odor of a thousand heavy perfumes. People were not merely gossiping. They were smiling, laughing, pointing .

Priscilla’s frown deepened. “Did anything happen? Could someone have learned the truth?”

“Of course not.” Yet her speeding heart belied the denial. Had her secret become compromised? She hadn’t told anyone, and Peyton hadn’t contacted anyone in London, at least not that she was aware. What if he had sent a message?

What if it revealed the truth?

“Whatever it is, it’s spreading,” Priscilla whispered.

Yes, it was. Now half the crowd sent surreptitious glances her way, accompanied by ever-increasing whispers. She closed her eyes, clenching her fists until her hands turned numb. Opening them, she steeled herself, stood taller. The new Lady Emma Sinclair was strong, resilient and poised, and could handle anything. No matter what, she would find a way to control the situation.

“I’m not going to wait for disaster to find me.” With her head held high, she walked into the crowd.

The whispering grew louder, the stares intensifying as she drew into the heart of the ballroom. Still, she kept a neutral expression, betraying none of the uncertainty tightening her lungs. She spotted and approached a widely grinning lady with blond ringlets and bright blue eyes. “Lady Constance, so good to see you.”

“Isn’t it a glorious evening?” The good-natured woman was even more exuberant than usual.

It was distinctly worrying.

“Yes, it is,” Emma said cautiously. She forced a smile to her lips. “What’s the secret?”

Constance’s eyes widened. “S-secret?”

“Oh, come on.” Emma lowered her voice. “I know something is afoot. Everyone is looking at me. Do you know the secret, Lady Constance?”

“I well, um.” Lady Constance’s eyes darted back and forth. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“Lady Emma does not like surprises,” Priscilla spoke frankly, her no-nonsense tone compelling. “Please share the news.”

The debutante hesitated, but then her grin widened. “I suppose since you don’t like surprises…” Her eyes shone. “It’s Peyton.”

Suspicions may have upended her senses, yet confirmation stole her breath. Emma struggled to suck in the suddenly thin air. “Has he sent a letter?”

The young woman shook her head.

“Sent word through a friend?”

Another shake.

If it wasn’t a letter or word of mouth…

“Is he returning?” she whispered.

Constance’s excited squeal was all the answer she needed.

Emma’s heart thumped. Blood rushed through her ears, a sickening tangle of anxiety and anticipation. Next to her, Priscilla stiffened, as the crowd looked on with glee.

Emma swallowed her fear, turned to Priscilla with a whisper, “Matters are not that dire. I shall simply explain our arrangement was not a certainty. By the time he arrives, the gossip will have dispelled.”

“Excuse me, Emma.”

“You’re assuming you have time.” Priscilla hissed. “He could arrive anytime. He could be in London this very minute.”

“Lady Priscilla?” Constance tried again.

Emma’s breath hitched. “Surely he’s not already here. Likely, he would inform people of his return in advance, so the estate may be prepared.”

“I’m not sure you understand,” Lady Constance said.

“Peyton doesn’t need anything readied,” Priscilla argued. “His mother and sister are still here.”

“Yes, but surely he’d send notice.”

“If you’d look right across the ballroom.”

“He wouldn’t just appear.”

“He’s right there.”

Reality shifted.

Emma’s breath hitched. Her heart fluttered. She turned, followed the pointing finger.

Peyton.