Page 1 of Gambling with the Earl (The Earls of the North #1)

Year of Our Lord 1296. A remote fishing village on the wild north-east coast of England.

M oonlight spilled through the open window, illuminating the shabby furnishings in the once beautiful parlour of Shoreston Manor.

When Kitty was a child, her mother’s titled relatives had gathered here twice a year to eat sweetmeats and try to convince the stubborn Lady Isabella to return home to Answick Castle. Back then, candlelight had sparkled in the looking glass, making everything appear bigger and brighter than it really was. Now the rug had been half-eaten by moths, and a thick layer of dust coated everything. There was no coin to spare for a fire in the grate of such a large room and so the door was usually kept closed. Only the tall, dark wood dresser remained unchanged. One cherished heirloom from her mother’s past.

With a steady hand, Kitty placed her candle on the dresser and surveyed the row of tiny drawers which nestled beneath the larger cabinet doors. Drawers for secret things , her mother had laughingly told her.

If only her mother was here now, to see her prophecy brought to life.

“Are the jewels still there?” Rosalind whispered, twisting her long fingers together nervously. Her pale face was puckered with an anxious frown which Kitty longed to dispel.

“Patience, dear sister,” she admonished gently.

The central drawer was smaller than the rest. You could be forgiven for not noticing it at all. Her mother had shown her how to apply just the right amount of pressure to the engraved cross on the front panel to pop it open. Kitty held her breath and steadied her trembling fingers. In another moment, they’d discover if their worst fears had been realised.

She pressed the cross, and the little drawer sprang out. She held the candle closer, struggling to make anything out in the darkness. From beyond the window came a distant shout and a roar of laughter. Rosalind flinched and drew her woollen shawl tighter over her slender shoulders.

Kitty reached into the drawer and breathed a deep sigh of relief when her fingers encountered a familiar cloth bag. She traced the line of hard edges beneath the softness of the cloth, releasing a faint trace of her mother’s scent into the air. She closed her eyes and shook her head, dispelling the fancy. Mother had been dead for ten years now. Her fragrance had long since disappeared from Shoreston, along with the silver and the sweetmeats.

“They are still there,” she said, her pronouncement echoing against the bare walls.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Rosalind clasped her hands with relief. “I knew Lizzie was wrong. Father would never be so reckless as to gamble away the last of our inheritance.” Her voice shook with the indignation of youth as she flicked back the neat braid of hair that had fallen over her shoulder.

Kitty shot her a look. Her little sister had seen fifteen summers. How could she still be so na?ve? A shaft of moonlight fell on Rosalind’s upturned face. With her delicate features, fair hair and pearly skin, she was a younger, slighter version of their beautiful mother, whereas Kitty had inherited her long limbs, red hair and freckled complexion from her father’s side of the family. Years ago, the difference had bothered her. Now she had more important things to worry about.

“I’m not sure about that,” Kitty said carefully. “When Father goes to the tavern, the very devil comes upon him. There’s no telling what he might do.”

Rosalind tossed her silvery blonde head. “I know. But I don’t worry as much as you do, because I have you to worry for me.” Her unswerving loyalty made Kitty’s lips curl into a smile. Meanwhile, Rosalind stifled a yawn. “Can we go back to bed now?”

“Yes, we can,” Kitty said, closing the drawer and standing back from the dresser, disliking the way the shadows dipped and flickered around them. She wished there was some way she could secure the jewels further, but this was the best hiding place in the house, and it had served them well until now.

Lizzie, one of just two remaining servants at Shoreston, was waiting for them in the hall. Her greying hair was neatly pinned under her cap, but her apron bore the stains of a long day’s work.

“Is all as it should be, miss?” she enquired, as soon as the two sisters appeared.

“All is well,” Kitty assured her, knowing how the older woman fretted. “But you did right to wake us, Lizzie, thank you.”

“I’m that glad.” The old woman put a hand on the simple cross-shaped pendant she always wore around her neck. “Alfred brought back some terrible tales from the tavern.” Her voice shook with a mix of nerves and almost feverish excitement. “He’s gone back there now to keep an eye on things.”

Rosalind stiffened and Kitty laid a comforting hand on her narrow shoulder. Kitty and Lizzie did everything they could to shield Rosalind from the hardships that had befallen Shoreston Manor. Rosalind had the choicest vegetables from their garden, along with the warmest woollens, but her bones still jutted outwards. Despite all Kitty’s hard work and efficient savings, there simply was no longer enough coin to go around. Especially when their father, Owain, was determined to gamble away everything he could get his hands on before drinking himself into a stupor every night.

“Hopefully Father will fall into a ditch and sleep off the worst of it before morning,” she said. The sentiment was harsh but deserved.

Lizzie met her eye over the flickering flame of the candle. “God willing, he will stay away tonight,” she said. “But you should know this. The menfolk of Rossfarne won’t let any harm befall the two of you. They remember your mother and the kindness she showed them when she first came here.”

Reassured, Rosalind yawned loudly, making the candlelight jump. Kitty’s own response was more complex. Her body was strong, her mind was sharp and she was still young at just twenty-two years of age. She didn’t want charity from the people of the town.

“Let’s go up.” She raised her candle to illuminate the bare wooden stairs. “Thank you again, Lizzie.”

The servant bobbed into a small bow which made the corners of Kitty’s mouth twitch once again. On most days, Kitty could be found working side by side with Lizzie to scrub the floors, peel the home-grown vegetables and beat the fading rugs. She had long since abandoned the airs and graces associated with her birth. Yes, she was a blood relative of the Duke of Answick, but she was also the child of a fisherman. She had always fancied it was the lowly side of her lineage that showed the strongest.

This was why she had put away Mother’s jewels for Rosalind.

She stood back to allow her younger sister to go ahead of her up the stairs. Pretty Rosalind would not befall the same fate as she. Of that, Kitty was determined. Her sister’s hands would stay soft and white. She would learn her lessons and make a suitable match when the time came. Mayhap not with anyone from the titled gentry, but Kitty hoped a local farmer or landowner might express an interest in the beautiful and ladylike Miss Rosalind Alden—helped, of course, with a dowry from Isabella’s jewels.

If things had been different, if Isabella had survived the difficult birth of a poor, ill-fated third child, Kitty would have hoped for more for herself. She had fond memories of a magical childhood spent riding horses and playing happily in the grounds of Shoreston. A singing tutor had come twice a week, and Kitty’s voice had been highly praised.

“A voice that could charm the birds from the trees,” her mother had teased. “A voice that will bring the suitors running.”

The very idea made Kitty snort with derision. There were certainly no suitors running to woo the oldest daughter of Owain the drunkard. No eligible young men breathing kisses over her work-roughened knuckles or whispering terms of endearment into her tousled hair as she kneaded the next day’s bread. Not that she cared. She had neither time nor yearning for love. The only thing that mattered was Rosalind.

A gust of air blew down the stairs and settled around Kitty’s neck and arms, making her shiver inside her chemise. She should have brought a shawl from their bedchamber. Shoreston Manor was crumbling, and although it was early summer, the nightly draughts streaming through the windows and roof retained the chilly sting of winter. Tiredness clung to her bones, as she had been up at sunrise to help Lizzie feed the chickens. In a few hours it would be time to rise again, but until then she could enjoy some undisturbed rest. Her eyelids were already closing as they turned the corner into their shared bedchamber, and she started in surprise as a frantic hammering rose up from the floor below.

Rosalind gripped her arm, unsteadying the candle. “What’s this now?” Her face was tight with trepidation.

“I don’t know.” As calmly as she could, she loosened her sister’s viselike fingers and crossed the room. “Who is it, Lizzie?”

Below she could see the older woman drawing back the bolts from the big front door. Alfred, their one remaining manservant, burst through before Lizzie had the door properly open.

“Where are they—Miss Katherine and Miss Rosalind? We don’t have long.”

“We’re up here.” Kitty took matters into her own hands, stepping onto the landing and peering over the worn, splintering banister.

“You must hide, Miss Katherine.” Alfred, a man who had worked hard all his life and was no longer young, ran a few steps up the stairs and then retreated back down. “Not up there. That’s the first place he’ll look. Lizzie, where can they hide?” he beseeched his fellow servant as he twisted his cap in his capable hands.

“In the pantry, behind the salt barrels,” Lizzie answered quickly, as if this was something she’d given previous thought to.

“Is that really necessary?” Kitty raised her eyebrows, reluctant to abandon the prospect of her warm bed.

“It’s worse than you could have ever dreamed.” Alfred dragged a hand through his wispy curls. Kitty opened her mouth to protest further, but he cut her off with a frantic shout after glancing back through the door. “Quickly now. They’re coming.”

Rosalind appeared at her side and with one accord they joined hands and rushed down the stairs. Lizzie led them along the narrow servant’s passage and through the kitchen to a rickety door at the back. Behind this was a small, cold, stone-flagged room which housed their pickles, preserves and the big wooden barrels used for salting meat. As she ushered them into the claustrophobic space behind the barrels, Kitty heard the march of a dozen approaching footsteps and the low rumble of a carriage. She crouched down next to Rosalind and reached for her hand.

A door banged and Rosalind whimpered in fright, but Lizzie shushed her. “Not a word,” she urged. “Stay as still and as quiet as you can. Please God they won’t find you here.” She clasped her hands together in a familiar, pious entreaty.

“What do you think is happening?” Rosalind whispered, as soon as the servant had retreated.

Her breath was warm against Kitty’s shoulder. The darkness was absolute. Kitty imagined spiders scurrying around them, but this was no time for childish fears.

“I’ve no idea,” she said firmly, closing her mind to desperate imaginings. The sisters were so close their foreheads were touching. “But we’d better do as he asks. Alfred would never do anything to harm us.”

Rosalind silently nodded her agreement. Years earlier, Alfred had carried them on his back when their little legs had grown tired. He’d pulled them on a sledge made by his own hands and smiled at their gleeful screams when they coursed down the nearby hills covered in snow. He was as loyal and honourable as the day was long—and Kitty and Rosalind were just as devoted to him as he was to them. Just last year his arm had been cut by an axe, but with Kitty’s careful nursing, the old man had pulled through.

For a moment all was quiet, but both of them tensed as they heard their father’s unsteady voice booming through the downstairs rooms.

“Katherine, where are you?”

He was drunk, that much was obvious. His words slurred together. A door slammed shut with such force the whole house rattled.

“Katherine, come to me now.”

Her heart jumped in her chest. Why would father single her out? Rosalind was his favourite, the double of the wife he’d loved. Kitty, he treated little better than a servant. But why would he shout for either of them at such an hour?

Rosalind gripped her hand and Kitty leaned closer to her sister, reassuring her that she would not reply. Footsteps overhead announced their father had entered their bedchamber. They heard him curse when he found the room empty.

“Damnation, Katherine. Show yourself.”

He was angry now. An angry man who was accustomed to getting his way. A great clatter told them he had pulled over their woollen chest. Rosalind stifled a sob and Kitty wriggled until she could put an arm around her, hardly daring to breathe.

The footsteps retreated but sounds of smashing glass and splintering wood still reached them. Kitty put her hands over Rosalind’s ears to protect her from it. Her father had returned from the tavern the worse for drink many times. Lately, his gambling habit had begun to spiral out of control, but thankfully they had little of value left for him to lose.

Would he come to the kitchen? Whatever did he want with her?

Owain never usually ventured into the servant’s quarters. Despite his lowly birth, he held himself in too great esteem to trouble himself with the workings of the house that had been bought with coin grudgingly given by his wife’s family.

Kitty placed her forehead on her knees and breathed deeply, calming her thoughts. Her father had drunk too much ale, that was all. Most likely he wanted her to attend to a tear in his tunic or to prepare him a broth. They would sit here and wait for him to fall asleep. In the morning, all would be back to normal.

All she could hear was the frantic hammering of her own heart. The silence stretched for so long it was almost unbearable. Then came the unmistakable sound of the bolts in the front door sliding shut. Kitty couldn’t wait a second longer. She stood up, stretching her cramped limbs, and nudged open the pantry door. The kitchen was flooded with moonlight and both girls blinked until their eyes adjusted. Rosalind’s clean white chemise was smeared with dust. Kitty would have to scrub it in the morning.

“Has he gone?” Rosalind whispered, her voice high and shaking.

Kitty paused. The house felt peaceful once again. “I think so.”

She indicated for Rosalind to stay where she was and crept slowly forwards herself. They both jumped with fright as a looming male figure appeared in the kitchen doorway, but relaxed as Alfred spoke up.

“Come and see, both of you.” His voice was bone weary.

They followed the tall man and his flickering candle back down the passage and into the parlour, wincing at the cold of the floor. Kitty stopped abruptly when she saw the drawers of the dresser standing open. The cabinet doors had been ripped from their hinges and flung across the room. Had father opened the small drawer and taken the jewels? Her body trembled with cold and worry, but Alfred was already ushering them towards the window.

“Stand here,” he insisted. “And don’t fret. Master or not, we won’t be letting Owain back in. Not tonight. Not ever.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Everything has changed.”

Kitty looked at him searchingly, but Alfred refused to meet her eyes. He held back the heavy, mouldy-smelling drapes, motioning for her to squash in beside Rosalind, before letting them fall and encasing them once again in darkness.

She frowned at the scene before her. Their usually quiet country lane was thronged with men holding lanterns and torches. The men were quiet, although their faces were set and determined. In the midst of them all stood a great, black carriage.

“The Earl of Rossfarne,” Rosalind yelped. “The carriage is his. Look at the coat of arms.”

“The Earl of Rossfarne is dead,” Kitty replied without thinking, shuddering a little at the memory of the evil man who had plagued their small village with his debauched, barbaric ways since before she was born. Tales from Rossfarne Castle could make the most hardened fisherman blanche.

“Miss Rosalind is right.” Alfred’s voice came from behind the drape. “The new Earl of Rossfarne has now taken up residence in the castle.”

“I didn’t even know he had any family,” Rosalind mused. “Still, I hope he’s a kinder man than his father was.”

Kitty frowned at her sister. Kindness didn’t come into it. The Earl of Rossfarne had been a danger to all right-thinking men and women. Especially women.

Protected as she was, it was important Rosalind was aware of such things. But Alfred spoke before Kitty could put these complicated thoughts into words.

“Not his father, his uncle,” he corrected her gently. “The new earl is his nephew. And he has not yet demonstrated any kindness or leniency,” he added with a break in his voice.

“What’s Father doing?” Rosalind interrupted.

Kitty pressed forward until her breath clouded the glass. Owain was walking unsteadily up their front path towards the carriage. He staggered from side to side, but not one of the watching men extended a hand to help him. As he reached the carriage, the door swung silently open and Kitty flinched backwards as a shaft of moonlight fell upon the outline of a tall, muscular man. She caught sight of a chiselled jawline and gleaming dark eyes, before Owain held up a small cloth bag with shaking arms and all the blood drained out of her body.

“Mother’s jewels,” she whispered, the awful reality hitting her.

“Your mother’s jewels,” Alfred repeated steadily. “He lost them in a game of dice.”

“To the Earl of Rossfarne?” Kitty’s mouth was as dry as sand.

“That isn’t the worst of it,” Alfred mumbled, but Kitty wasn’t listening. What could be worse than the loss of their inheritance and Rosalind’s best chance of a future?

Owain handed over the cloth bag and anger unfurled in Kitty’s chest as the Earl slowly inspected its contents. What did a man as rich as he need with their mother’s precious jewels? He would most likely forget he had them by morning.

An unfamiliar voice, low and masculine, spoke from the carriage. “Is that all of them?” His words were clear despite the distance. It was a voice of authority, accustomed to giving commands. A voice which sent shivers down her spine.

“Every last one, my lord.” Owain ducked into a half bow and Kitty heard a great roaring sound in her ears, as if the sea was crashing upon the rocks in a mighty storm. Her vision blurred and she had to grip the drapes with white-knuckled fingers to stay upright. The next part of the conversation was lost to her, but she saw Owain hold his hands up as if in apology and the earl sniff contemptuously.

“By morning, I swear to it,” her father was saying when she tuned back in.

The earl motioned him away. “No matter.” The door swung closed and after a second, the carriage rolled back down the lane.

“What did he mean?” Rosalind asked breathlessly.

Kitty’s head was pounding so much she feared she might fall over. “We’ve lost the jewels,” she croaked. It was all she could think of.

“The men are forming a circle around Father.” Her sister wriggled free of the heavy drape, pulling it away from Kitty in the process, but there was no cause for secrecy now. “Alfred, what’s happening?” Rosalind persisted.

“Owain is being escorted out of Rossfarne.” Alfred folded his arms across his once muscular chest, shifting from one foot to another with uncharacteristic nerves. “If he goes peacefully, he won’t be harmed.”

Kitty watched dully as the crowd of men gathered behind her father, their lanterns bobbing in the darkness. Slowly but surely, they urged him forwards, away from his house and his daughters and anyone he could harm further. Not a word was spoken, not even by Owain. Maybe even he knew that this time he had gone too far?

“Father’s really going,” Rosalind said. Her voice was faint with disbelief and Kitty reached for her hand, unable to offer any other form of reassurance.

The glow of yellow light from the assembled lanterns grew dim and distant. The carriage had long disappeared out of sight and the events of the night felt unreal, like a bad dream. Like a cool glass of water might clear their heads and make it all go away. But Kitty knew this was a dream they would never wake up from.

Silence enveloped them. Rosalind stood as if frozen and Alfred waited, his head bowed respectfully.

Kitty allowed her knees to buckle. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the hard wooden floor. Coldness settled into her bones as the last of her hope drained away.

“Father’s really gone,” she confirmed, hardly caring of the fact. “And worst of all, so have the jewels.”