Page 10 of To Heal a Broken Earl
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 gamehe 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 arrivedbeforeLady 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 whenI 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.
“Byanyone, 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.”
