The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

on his desk in favor of going to stand at the windows in the alcove.

What a cake he’d made of himself. He needed a brisk walk and a stern lecture. The sooner he had a commission the better. If he didn’t hear again from the Admiralty soon, he’d be forced to swallow his pride and apply at a merchant company for a job. For the first time, staying at the estate had a strong pull, possibly stronger than that of the sea. Was his heart going to be a traitor to his calling?

He couldn’t stay at Gateshead if he was going to be foolish enough to fall in love with his wife.

It would somehow be disloyal to Rich, wouldn’t it? He was tasked with looking after Sophie. Just as he was the girls. He should think of her only in those terms. She might be married to him, but she was like a ward, and he was like a guardian. Right?

In love. What twaddle.

Going away to sea under those circumstances would be both a relief and pure torture. How had Rich managed to keep an even keel, loving Sophie and yet being parted from her for such long stretches?

He pounded his fist on the windowsill. What an idiot he was.

Well, he wasn’t going to let it happen. It was a matter of disciplining his mind and heart.

Perhaps a bit of tedium with the estate books would sort him out. There was nothing so unromantic as ledgers. He would be glad when Alastair Lythgoe arrived to take the position of steward. Charles would gladly foist most of the paperwork onto Lythgoe’s desk.

The leather of the most recent of his uncle’s account books creaked and cracked as Charles pressed it open. In a final protest, the spine gave up the fight, breaking at the hinge and exposing the spine’s interior. A small puff of dust rose up, and Charles swatted it away.

What was this?

A roll of paper had been shoved down the spine and now lay on the marbled endpaper. Charles picked it up, mildly curious. His uncle had been a long ways off being in his right mind, and Charles had found similar documents tucked here and there in the old earl’s rooms. Spidery notes that made no sense. He’d thrown them into the fire-starter bin each time he’d found one.

Unrolling the paper, which was in remarkably good condition—the hiding place must have sheltered it from wear—he noted that this one was different. It hadn’t been written by his uncle.

It was a letter addressed to the former earl.

Rothwell,

The money has been deposited in your account. Your share of the haul was 30 percent, as agreed. The next load will leave Calais on the ninth. See that your boat is on station to receive it on the eleventh. We can’t hang about waiting for you. The Revenue cutter has been doing sweeps, and the last thing we want is to get caught in that net. This time light the signal lamp. The flag was of no use to us in the dark.

P.

Charles read the note again, hoping, praying he had misunderstood. But no. There could be no other explanation.

His uncle had played some part in smuggling goods.

Fire burned along his veins. He’d spent the greater part of his life defending England, protecting her borders, manning the blockade, and here his own uncle had been subverting the law and bringing in contraband.

Which meant at least some of Charles’s inheritance had been funded by illegal activity. The fat bank account his uncle had amassed had come through breaking the law.

He examined the note again. No date. No way to tell when it had been written or when it had been received. The paper hadn’t yellowed or cracked, nor had the ink faded. It looked as if it could have been written yesterday.

His uncle’s boat had been used in the crime. Which meant that someone else knew about it, because his uncle, as old as he was, hadn’t been running the Shearwater out into the channel to pick up contraband alone.

Miles?

Grayson?

Someone else?

Who was “P”? Pembroke, the girls’ father?

Two questions were paramount: Was the smuggling still going on, and what should Charles do about it?

He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. He would need to deal with this before he took up a captaincy. Lawbreaking had no place at Gateshead, not while he was in charge.

At least this new problem had gotten his mind off Sophie.

C

HAPTER

11

THE NIGHT OF the assembly, Thea stood by the front door, face reproachful. “I don’t see why I can’t go.”

Sophie checked her appearance in the mirror one last time as the carriage pulled into the circular drive. She had to stand on tiptoe and crane her neck, because Penny primped and tried different expressions before her reflection, taking up nearly all the space in front of the looking glass.

Without turning around, Penny scolded her sister. “You’ve done nothing but poke fun and chide me for being excited to go, and now you want to come?” She made a little pout at her reflection, lowering her chin and batting her lashes.

Thea crossed her thin arms. “I don’t like being left out. I’ll miss everything if I have to stay here. I don’t see why you got invited. You’re not that much older than me.”

“Nearly five years, darling.” The eldest Pembroke sister was too consumed with her own excitement to worry about how her middle sister was faring.

Going to Thea, Sophie cupped the child’s cheek. “I know. I felt the same way when I was your age. But you’ll get to go soon enough. And I promise to tell you everything tomorrow morning.”

“Can I come to your room first thing?”

“Absolutely.” Sophie hid her wince. Thea was known for rising before the rooster, and tonight they would be late returning. She would jump into Sophie’s bed at first light with questions and wiggles and opinions galore. Still, one night of short sleep in exchange for making Thea