Page 5 of To Heal a Broken Earl (The Rakes of Mayhem #7)

Just before sunrise

On a road somewhere, heading to Sussex

My God! She’s captivating, and she’s the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, Michael mused, his gaze fixed on Lady Emma Grantham, seated across from him in the carriage.

Her niece, Katie, was nestled beside her, with Doris—the maid Lady Beadle had insisted accompany them—leaning against the carriage wall.

The soft glow of morning filtered through the window, catching the red-gold strands in Emma’s hair and casting a warm halo around her.

Even in slumber, she was beautiful. And those eyes—those extraordinary violet eyes—had regarded him earlier with a frankness he wasn’t used to in a woman, save for his sister, Lady Beadle, and the wives of his closest friends.

She was exhausted—he could see it in the paleness of her cheeks, the faint rasp in her smoke-roughened voice—but still carried herself with quiet dignity, insisting she would be no burden.

She would absolutely not be a burden, no, but the woman was as hardheaded as they came.

Katie, curled against her aunt’s side, looked angelic in sleep, and even Doris, who protested at first about riding in a carriage before breakfast, had dozed off within moments of their departure, her snores growing louder with every mile.

A fond smile crept over his lips in quiet amusement as he recalled the spirited exchanges with Emma—her adamant refusal to accept charity, and her resolve to take up the housekeeper’s role on her terms. He exhaled slowly, the amusement fading into a heaviness he couldn’t shake.

She’ll be dangerous to have around, he reminded himself. Too bright. Too direct. She was a wild card in a game he no longer wished to play. The war had altered him in ways he still didn’t fully understand. Once he had dreamed of eagerly taking a wife, having children—

a home filled with laughter. But now all that remained were scars—deep and jagged, carved into his skin, others buried deep, scars he would never inflict on another. He could not— would not —let any woman see the darkness he carried deep in his soul.

Ultimately, he had given in, but privately, he wished he had arrived before Lady Beadle suggested the position.

He would have offered Emma and Katie sanctuary at his estate without any mention of employment.

It felt awkward, even improper, to have a lady, and that lady in particular, serving as his housekeeper.

But Armstrong had interceded, ever the voice of reason, and convinced him that the arrangement added another layer of protection.

A practical disguise, shielding both Emma and the child.

Both Celia and Lady Beadle had agreed with reasoning that echoed Armstrong’s advice, that the housekeeper position offered the perfect means of hiding Emma in plain sight.

It had been a clever bit of misdirection, and the more Michael had considered it, the more it made sense.

It had given him just enough justification to move forward with the plan, at least for now—until the arsonist was identified and brought to justice.

He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled heavily.

It felt as though days had passed since the plan had been discussed—when in truth, it had been scarcely a few hours.

Lady Beadle, with her usual persistence, had also insisted that Doris accompany them, both as chaperone and as personal maid.

Emma had protested at first, pointing out that she had no need of a lady’s maid, particularly as she was to serve as Michael’s housekeeper.

But this time it was Celia’s gentle wisdom that persuaded her.

Doris would be a great help with Katie, especially while Emma was busy with her new duties.

Lady Beadle had added that Katie had already taken a liking to Doris.

The maid possessed an uncanny ability for putting young visitors at ease, ensuring they wanted for nothing during their stay.

Her cheerful nature and lighthearted laughter had a way of making even the most mundane moments feel joyful—something Michael suspected would be no small comfort to a child who’d just lost her home.

Emma had retired to rest for a few hours while the four of them—Michael, Armstrong, Lady Celia, and Lady Beadle—remained in the drawing room to finalize the details of how best to move Lady Emma and Katie, without drawing attention.

The plan that took shape was not unlike others he and Armstrong had devised in the past during their more covert endeavors.

“How do you plan to move Emma and Katie?” Lady Beadle had asked, not one to mince words. “I know you boys are experts at all this espionage business but humor an old woman and explain what you have in mind.”

“First, we generally review all the possible options, Aunt Millie,” Armstrong replied.

“But given that time is of the essence, the goal is to move them without anyone noticing. Think of it like that sleight-of-hand trick we saw at the Adelphi. Remember? One moment, the conjurer was holding your fan—and the next, it had disappeared.”

Lady Beadle’s brow arched. “Yes. My most prized fan. French ivory, hand-painted silk. And where did it reappear?” Her lips twitched. “In the vicar’s coat pocket. I thought the poor man was going to faint, so scandalized he was when the magician asked him to look inside. Bright red, he went.”

Armstrong and Michael had exchanged an amused glance with Celia, who lifted her teacup to hide her smile.

“I saw him a few days later at Lady Farnsworth’s tea,” Lady Beadle added. “He turned crimson all over again when I asked after his rheumatism. Poor man. I imagine he’s still recovering.”

“So, the idea is to create a bit of misdirection—spirit Emma and Katie away without anyone noticing,” Armstrong said.

“We should leave very early in the morning, when no one is expecting us to depart,” Michael added.

“By anyone , you mean the arsonist,” Lady Beadle said, her tone shrewd.

Both men had nodded.

Emma now stirred in her sleep, shifting slightly as the carriage jostled along the rutted road. A loose curl slipped across her cheek, obscuring her face.

Michael hesitated. Then, almost without thinking, he leaned forward and gently tucked the lock behind her ear. His fingers brushed her skin—soft, warm—and he immediately sat back, frowning at himself.

She and Katie had been through a harrowing night. They needed protection. They needed to feel safe again. And most of all, they needed rest.

He dragged a hand through his hair again, a habit he’d never quite shaken when something unsettled him. Turning to stare out the window, he pushed aside the strange knot in his chest. Focus, damn it.

His thoughts returned to the conversation from just hours earlier…

“It’s important to get them out of town, Aunt Millie—away from the arsonist,” Armstrong had said, ever the pragmatist. “He wouldn’t be expecting them to leave again so soon—if he even followed them here. And unless he shows himself, we can’t be sure he saw them arrive at your house.”

“They can rest in the carriage on the way to Sussex,” Michael added. “I doubt Lady Grantham will have the energy or focus to do much today. Tonight’s given her quite a shock.”

“But if the arsonist knows who she is, it’s the last place he’d think to look—and with the route we’re taking by road, it should take about a day and a half to reach Sussex,” Michael continued. “But if we use the river and take it part of the way, we can cut the time in half.”

“Emma knows her mind. She’s not made of fluff, as so many Society girls are today. She does not shirk hard work,” Lady Beadle explained. “Besides, with all that’s happened, the girl needs to stay busy. And…I want to make sure she stays well. This is an arsonist, for God’s sake.”

“We’ll take every precaution, Aunt Millie,” Armstrong assured her.

“We’ll use unmarked carriages along with some sleight of hand, such as entering the front of an inn, only to walk out the back and get into a different carriage, changing clothing, and using rural back roads and a light rig.

If someone is tailing us, we’ll make damn sure they lose the trail and be unable to guess our destination. ”

Michael had smiled then, recalling the gleam in the dowager’s eyes. For a moment, he could’ve sworn she was plotting to join them herself.

He was glad that Hastings, Stanhope, and Mrs. McDonald had planned to follow later in the day—leaving just a skeleton staff at the townhouse, he had informed Lady Beadle.

“If we’ve forgotten anything,” he’d told her, “Send it along with them. They’ll be taking the direct route and should arrive well ahead of us. ”

The carriage lurched as one of the wheels struck a rut in the road, jarring Michael from his thoughts. The plan, the secrecy, the familiar rhythm of covert strategy—all of it faded as the present reasserted itself.

He glanced at his pocket watch. They would reach The Rooster’s Inn in a couple of hours, he estimated, leaning back against the leather squabs…

He took some comfort in knowing Armstrong was nearby, accompanied by several outriders positioned to watch the road behind them. If the arsonist had followed, Michael felt confident they’d spot him.

Still, he kept his eyes sharp, scanning the terrain through the window, alert to anything unusual.

The last time he and Armstrong pulled off this sort of operation had been years ago, while smuggling a French marquis through England to a safe house in Cornwall.

The man had turned informant, offering intelligence on an imminent insurrection in exchange for sanctuary.

Thanks to his information, they’d been able to prevent what would have become a bloody and widespread protest.

This mission was different. But the stakes were no less personal.

The main objective today was to avoid the major coaching roads, particularly the turnpike, which would have tollgates and far more people who might be able to recall seeing them, should someone ask.

Instead, they would cut across Kent into Sussex, keeping to rural back roads through the countryside and passing through small villages.

At least, that was what this carriage would be doing.

If things worked out the way Michael and Armstrong planned, he, Emma, Katie, and Doris would be on a more direct route, using the Thames as much as possible.

His manor, Wilton Hall, was in the South Downs region, an area known for its rolling chalk hills, wooded valleys, and sweeping vistas of open grassland.

There was sea access nearby and a comforting sense of seclusion.

It was far enough from London to provide peace, yet close enough when duty—or Society—called.

He had visited the estate twice since inheriting the title. Structurally, it was sound. But the interior would need considerable work—fresh paint, new furnishings, and improvements to the overgrown grounds. A slow, steady project.

Michael’s gaze drifted across the carriage once more.

Lady Emma slept quietly beside her niece, her expression softened in slumber.

He wondered if she’d be content with the role of housekeeper—especially when the bulk of the work ahead would involve overseeing the refurbishment of a neglected estate.

She didn’t strike him as a woman who feared a challenge.

At one time, Wilton Hall had been known for its horse breeding.

Since learning of his inheritance, Michael had been considering it as a possible future pursuit for himself—something tangible, methodical.

The stables offered plenty of space, though they’d require substantial repair before any horses could be properly housed.

Still, it was a project he found himself looking forward to.

The stable had plenty of space, but it would need a lot of repairs before the stable could be used—and this was a project that he looked forward to undertaking.

A soft murmur drew his attention. Emma shifted against the squabs in her sleep, and the sight of her—peaceful, unaware—stirred something unexpected in him.

Her hair, rich with copper tones, shimmered in the shifting morning light, and it irritated him more than he cared to admit that he found it beautiful.

That he found her beautiful. And those eyes—lavender with curious flecks of gold—had a way of meeting his with a startling frankness.

As if she saw far more than he intended to reveal.

But he would keep his distance. He had to.

With young Katie in her care and the responsibilities awaiting her at the estate, Emma would be kept busy. And so would he. Michael would be able to keep his distance. There was no way he would allow himself to become involved, no matter how attractive she was. He was too damaged for any woman.

~*~

He stood silently in the shadows across from Curzon Street.

His broad-brimmed black hat was pulled low to obscure his face, and his long coat shrouded him in darkness.

Lights flickered intermittently in the upper windows of the townhouse, but it was the steady glow in the center of the house that held his attention.

That was where she was— her , the woman who had intrigued him and lured him into this desolation.

The house had buzzed with activity for hours. And as dawn crept closer, he became increasingly certain this was where she’d gone. He had intended to set her home alight, watch it burn until nothing remained. He’d thought it would bring peace. That elusive peace.

It hadn’t.

Now, he understood.

He didn’t want peace.

He wanted her .

A distant sound broke into his thoughts. A carriage rolled in from the mews behind the house, slowed, and turned onto the cobbled street, pushing him deeper into the shadows. Its black-lacquered sides glinted briefly before it disappeared around the corner.

Moments later, another carriage emerged—but turned in the opposite direction.

Too dark to make out the lettering on either side. But he knew— she was in one of them.

And he would find her.

Satisfied that neither carriage had seen him, he stepped out from the shadows and untied his horse from the mulberry bush. As he mounted, he paused only briefly before nudging the animal toward the first carriage’s route, keeping far enough behind to remain unseen.

But not too far.

He had a job to finish.

~*~