Page 1 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
CHAPTER 1
London,
October 1820
Andrew Drake,the Earl of Longley, had outdone himself this time. He sat on his bed, admiring the necklace displayed in a box on his lap, the glittering facets of the rubies reflecting the candlelight back at him.
It was exquisite. The workmanship—faultless. The gems—flawless. The design—bold without being gaudy.
Florence would be delighted, and when his mistress was pleased, she rewarded him in all sorts of creative and delicious ways.
He traced his fingers around the edge of the largest ruby, set in silver and surrounded by smaller but no less perfect specimens, imagining how it would look around her pale, elegant neck. Perhaps she would allow him to strip her of everything but the necklace and—
A knock at the door interrupted his musings. He scowled. His servants knew better than to interrupt him during the nights he spent with Florence. Especially when he wassupposed to be leaving soon, and she’d pout and sulk if he was late.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“A Mr. Harold Fisher is in the drawing room, my lord,” the butler, Boden, called through the bedroom door. “He wishes to speak with you.”
Andrew frowned. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t quite recall where from. He carefully set the necklace down, then paced to the door and opened it. Boden, a gray-haired man of indeterminate age, straightened his shoulders, instinctively standing taller while simultaneously dipping his chin.
“Apologies, my lord. He would not be deterred,” he said.
Andrew waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind that. You’re just doing your job. Did Mr. Fisher tell you what his business is?”
“No, my lord. But he gave me his card. Would you care to see it?”
“Yes, please, Boden.”
Boden extracted a plain white calling card from his front pocket and offered it to Andrew, who accepted the card and read the details printed neatly in the center.
Harold Fisher, Esq.
Smith & Fisher Co.
“Ah. He is Albert Smith’s business partner. Unusual for him to call on me.” With a sigh, he pocketed the card. “Please inform Mr. Fisher that I will be with him soon.”
Boden bowed. “Very good, my lord.”
Andrew rolled his eyes as the butler turned away. No matter how many times he told Boden he didn’t have to refer to him as “my lord” every single time he spoke, there was no stopping the man. It wasn’t sufficient to show his respect once or twice in a conversation—he must do so incessantly.
Curious what had brought his man of business’s partner to Drake House, Andrew strode back to the bed, where hefolded silk around the necklace, placed it in its box, and closed the lid. He checked his attire in a full-length mirror beside the wardrobe and straightened his cravat. That done, he headed downstairs.
Boden had left Mr. Fisher in the blue drawing room. As Andrew approached, he spotted the small, neatly turned-out man standing stiffly in front of an empty writing desk, his hands folded over his lower abdomen.
“Good evening,” Andrew said as he entered. He offered Mr. Fisher his hand, and they shook briskly. “I understand you wish to speak with me.”
Mr. Fisher’s small brown eyes darted left and right. “I’m not sure that ‘wish’ is the correct term, my lord. It’s more that I must speak with you regarding an urgent matter.”
Andrew’s eyebrows drew together as he studied the other man. Sweat was beaded at Mr. Fisher’s hairline, and he was quite pale.
“Do you feel well?” he asked. “Would you like me to call for tea?”
Mr. Fisher shifted from one foot to the other, and a droplet of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Really, this was most unusual. The fire wasn’t lit, and the air in the drawing room was verging on cold.
“No, thank you.” Mr. Fisher adjusted the collar of his shirt, subtly tugging it out as if he were having difficulty breathing.
Andrew took a step back. “I say, man. Are you ill?”
