Her Scoundrel Earl (Escape with a Scoundrel Series Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Praise for Her Scoundrel Earl

  The Escape with a Scoundrel Series

  A Note from Shelly

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Also by Shelly Thacker

  Bonus Excerpt: His Forbidden Touch

  About Shelly Thacker

  Copyright

  PRAISE FOR

  An RWA RITA Award Finalist: Best Historical Romance of the Year

  “A wild and wonderful ride through dark woods and moonlit roads, filled with adventure, passion and intrigue. Irresistible!”

  –RT Book Reviews

  “This enthralling tale will keep you spellbound from beginning to end!”

  –Rendezvous

  A full-length novel of 110,000 words

  Originally published by Avon Books under the title Midnight Raider

  This new Author’s Preferred Edition has been extensively revised by the author and includes new scenes never before published.

  Search keywords: historical romance, sexy romance, Georgian romance, England, romantic adventure, highwayman, secret identity, action-adventure, outlaws, fugitives, highwaymen, stolen treasure

  THE

  SERIES

  These sexy bad boys are on the wrong side of the law—and willing to break all the rules to protect the women they love. Each book in the Escape with a Scoundrel Series is a stand-alone historical romance, so you can enjoy them in any order:

  Book 1: ESCAPE WITH A SCOUNDREL (Nicholas and Samantha)

  Book 2: HER SCOUNDREL EARL (Marcus and Elizabeth)

  Book 3: ONE NIGHT WITH A SCOUNDREL (Saxon and Ashiana)

  Book 4: A SCOUNDREL’S KISS (Max and Marie)

  More Scoundrels coming soon! For the latest news and sneak previews of upcoming books, visit http://www.shellythacker.com/contact to subscribe to Shelly’s free email newsletter.

  A NOTE FROM

  Dear Reader: My assistant and I carefully proofread each of my books before publication. We work hard to produce ebooks that are 100% free of typographical errors. But typos are sneaky little devils, and sometimes they slip past us. If you spot any typos lurking in this book, please visit http://www.shellythacker.com/contact to email them to me. Thank you! Together, we can stamp out sneaky typos.

  To my husband,

  my partner in all of life’s adventures,

  because this one has always been your favorite.

  London, 1742

  Elizabeth Thornhill had one thing left to live for. She clung to that thought with steely tenacity as the door to Charles Montaigne’s study swung closed behind her.

  Sunlight streamed in the tall sash windows that offered a view of fashionable Cavendish Square. Elizabeth took no pleasure in the sun’s warmth. Nor did she find reassurance in the well-remembered scent of wax and lemons that rose from the room’s freshly polished oak floor. She pulled off her worn mittens but left her voluminous cloak on and her hood up, seeing no sense in revealing just how desperate her plight was.

  She clenched her cold fingers together while she waited for the white-wigged man hunched over an enormous Queen Anne desk to address her. Mr. Montaigne did not even look up from his ledger book.

  She started to speak, then stopped herself, unsure whether it would seem rude. “Oh Lawks,” she whispered under her breath, afraid that even such a mild oath might be considered impolite.

  She had hoped this meeting would be over quickly, so she could be on her way. She needed to find herself some sort of employment. She had tried for a fortnight, only to be rebuffed at every turn. No one would hire her in her present state.

  Today she would succeed. She must. Another night on the streets would be more than she could bear. Even the meanest lodgings would be better than sleeping in St. James Park, as she had the past few days. Remembering the damp grass and the bone-soaking cold and the men who prowled by moonlight made Elizabeth shiver.

  “M-Mr. Montaigne?” she asked finally.

  He waved her forward without replying, without even looking up.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and walked forward, her woolen skirt scratchy against her bare legs. She wore no undergarments. She had gotten fivepence for her pannier, twopence for her petticoat and three whole shillings for her stays. It still wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  It seemed to take an inordinately long time to cross from the door to the desk. The study was nearly twice the size of the attic apartment she and her late husband had shared. It was beyond belief that one man lived alone in this immense townhouse.

  “Sit.” He indicated a seat in front of his desk. Marking his place in the ledger, he looked up at last.

  Elizabeth sank into the spindle-legged chair. She could not meet his gaze, and instead found herself staring at the jeweled stickpin in his snowy lace cravat. The stone—she guessed it must be an emerald—matched the green satin of his coat and waistcoat.

  She suddenly felt more shame and loneliness than she had ever known in the entire twenty-three years of her life. “Mr. Montaigne, I—”

  “Have you brought my money, Mrs. Thornhill?”

  “No, sir. I know I said in my note that I would have it by today—”

  “I have been most patient with you, Mrs. Thornhill.”

  Elizabeth stared down at her chapped, reddened hands, twisted in the folds of her blue cloak. “I’m sure my father’s solicitor is looking for me even now, Mr. Montaigne. My inheritance—”

  “Yes, yes, your note was quite eloquent about that, and I certainly remember the high points: your widowed father was killed in a recent fire, and you have an inheritance which will arrive in London momentarily. Spare me the sad tales, madam. I have heard them all before.”

  Elizabeth struggled to keep her tone even. “Please, Mr. Montaigne, I’m telling you the truth. Grant me one more week.” Begging was as unfamiliar and distasteful to her as several of the other things she had been forced to do in the past two weeks, from sleeping in doorways to scrounging in alleys for scraps of food.

  But she must not think of herself now. She was responsible for the life of another.

  “Sir, it is only seven shillings.”

  “Only seven shillings?” He snorted and picked up his ledger book, shaking it at her. “Have you any idea how many of your kind owe me seven shillings? If I let you get away with not repaying your late husband’s debt, others will see no reason to repay their debts. Then those who owe me seven pounds shall begin to think twice, then the ones who owe seven hundred. No, Mrs. Thornhill. It is not good business.”

  Elizabeth looked at the silver inkwell on his desk, the leather-bound books, the lacquered chinoiserie bookends—probably all paid for by the misfortune of others. Her temper flared. “What can seven shillings possibly mean to a man of your wealth, sir? Surely you sell enough of your accursed gin in a single hour to make many times that amount.”

  “Do not deign to lecture me about what I choose to sell, madam,” he snapped. “I am only providing the people with what they want. If I didn’t do so, someone else would.” He tossed the ledger book aside. “To return to the subject of your debt, you insist you have no family left in England?”

  “None, sir.” She fought back a wave of emotion that made her voice unsteady. “As I explained in my note, both of my parents are dead, and my younger sister married and left the country last year—”

  “And there is no one else here in London from whom you could obtain the money?”

  She shook her head. “No. My husband and I only arrived from Northampton this spring, just after our wedding. He thought to find work—”

  “Yes, yes, just like the cartloads of other bumpkins who flock to London every day. The men end up as thieves and the women earn their money on their backs…”

  He suddenly fell silent. Elizabeth looked up, and her cheeks grew hot as the old man perused her face, his carefully powdered and rouged features animated with an entirely different kind of interest.

  “Hmm, yes…you would be worth a great deal.” He rubbed his chin with pale, liver-spotted fingers. “A great deal. Your eyes are the most…tell me, what color is that?”

  Elizabeth answered through gritted teeth. “I’ve been told it is violet, Mr. Montaigne. But as to my—”

  “Violet.” His gaze lingered over her face, then traveled downward, assessing. Suddenly his blue eyes narrowed and his lips twisted in disgust. “It would seem, Mrs. Thornhill, that you are in no condition to repay me in that way.”

  Elizabeth’s hands moved in an unconscious protective gesture to cover her mids
ection. She had vainly hoped her cloak would conceal her condition, but there was no hiding that she was almost seven months pregnant.

  Montaigne gave a disappointed shake of his head. “I have friends who would pay a high price for exclusive use of your services. But until you drop the brat you are of no use to me.”

  Elizabeth raised her chin and glared at him, clenching her hands into fists. Enough was enough. True, she was only a country girl, but her father had been a prosperous innkeeper and a respected man of some means. He never could have known that arranging her marriage to ambitious young Geoffrey Thornhill would bring her to these straits.

  Geoffrey hadn’t found the better life he sought in London, but he refused to return home a failure. He had drowned his disappointment in liquor until one night he was killed in a drunken brawl, leaving her with bills to pay in every gin shop in the East End—including one owned by the fine Mr. Charles Montaigne.

  By then it was too late for Elizabeth to return to Northampton. The roads were in a deplorable state and she dared not travel in her condition.

  But her inheritance would arrive soon. And if it didn’t, she would find some way to earn the seven shillings. An honest way. She had her child, her pride, and her wits, and she would find a way to survive.

  “Mr. Montaigne, your money and your fine townhouse and your fancy clothes do not give you the right to abuse me. I’m telling you the truth. I have sold everything I own.” Reaching up, she lowered her hood, feeling satisfaction at his look of shock. Her once-luxuriant black hair had been shorn within an inch of her head.

  A wigmaker had paid her three pounds, but even that hadn’t been enough. “I have paid all of my husband’s other debts. Yours was the smallest, and I didn’t expect it would be so troublesome to you. I give you my word, you will have your seven shillings by next week.”

  She rose from her chair with as much grace as she could manage and stared down at him. “I, sir, have no price.” She turned to leave.

  “No.”

  Already halfway across the chamber, Elizabeth stopped and turned. “Is there something else, Mr. Montaigne?”

  “I said no, Mrs. Thornhill. You will not leave. I knew before you came here that you wouldn’t have the money. You shiftless country rabble never do. I have taken the liberty of swearing out a warrant against you with the magistrate at Fleet Prison.”

  Elizabeth suddenly found it hard to breathe. “You can’t…” The polished oak floor and scroll-patterned ceiling seemed to be spinning. “You can’t commit me to Fleet for seven shillings!”

  “Yes, I certainly can.” His impassive voice did not change. “What I cannot do is run a business on sympathy. After a time, I may come fetch you. As I said, I have friends who would pay a great deal to have you.”

  Elizabeth’s legs trembled. “B-but…my baby.” She fought to remain standing, refused to sink to her knees before him. “I can’t give birth in Fleet Prison! You must at least allow me time—”

  “No, Mrs. Thornhill. I have no doubt that if I allow you to leave this house, I will never see you again.” He leaned to one side and tugged the tasseled bell-pull beside his desk.

  Before Elizabeth could think of a way to escape, two of Montaigne’s footmen hurried into the room.

  “No! You can’t do this!” She tried to back away. They took her by the arms and she struggled to break free. “You can’t! Please!”

  The silk-liveried footmen held her fast, waiting expectantly for their employer’s orders.

  Charles Montaigne didn’t spare Elizabeth another glance. “Escort this woman to Fleet Prison. I have already spoken with the magistrate. The gaoler has the appropriate papers.”

  For her baby’s sake, Elizabeth stopped fighting the men as they dragged her out. Montaigne said not another word to her. Just before the study door closed, she could see him calmly reopening his ledger book, picking up his pen and resuming his work.

  Outside, one of Montaigne’s coaches waited in the almost blinding sunlight of Cavendish Square. The footmen loaded Elizabeth inside with all the care they would show a sack of vegetables—and by the time they arrived at Fleet a half hour later, she had gone numb with fear.

  Even in her brief time in London, she had heard horrible tales of this place.

  Fleet. The notorious debtors’ prison where the dregs of society and nobles alike, men, women, and children, were jailed until they paid their debts—or died. Sending someone here was tantamount to murder, and usually just as effective.

  Elizabeth was handed over and processed with swift and horrifying efficiency. Within minutes, the gaoler escorted her to a cell, shoved her inside and locked the gate behind her.

  Fighting a wave of nausea, shaking so hard she could barely stand, Elizabeth squinted into the dark, trying to make sense of the forms milling about. Her senses reeled from the stench of overflowing chamber pots and unwashed bodies.

  “Look at the belly on ’er,” a male voice chuckled from the shadows.

  Then another voice rang out, this one feminine and lacking the slightest note of humor.

  “Welcome to hell, missy.”

  Four weeks later she had grown used to the smells, the cold, the hunger, the moans and sobs of her fellow prisoners. Hour upon hour of imprisonment had worn away her revulsion and fear until there was nothing left of either. Even the lack of light no longer bothered Elizabeth, though she could tell day from night only by the trickle of sunlight that occasionally shone down the empty chimney flue.

  Every day, more debtors arrived. Elizabeth’s cell was so full that the prisoners had to sleep packed together at night. Even that no longer bothered her. She had found she could stand almost anything. Except the awful pain in her belly.

  It was so agonizing that she had been lost in a delirium for a time. In her mind, she was home in Northampton again with her sister Emma, racing Father’s coach horses pell-mell over every fence in the shire…reading books borrowed from the inn’s guests in the kitchen…surrounded by the scents of smoked bacon and fresh coffee and the glow of candlelight…

  Gradually, Elizabeth drifted back to awareness. She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. Like iron bands alternately squeezing and releasing her body, the pain still wracked her, though she knew she had delivered her son hours ago.

  Her son. A smile touched her chapped lips as she slowly came awake. Her labor had come upon her unexpectedly, a whole month early. There had been no midwife to help her through it, no apothecary’s potions to ease her suffering. The pain had been so bad, lasting an entire day and into the night, that she thought she would surely die of it.

  But when she saw her son, with his ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes, his face round like a cherub’s, his cries so loud and lusty, she forgot the pain. She forgot the prison, the hopelessness of her situation, forgot everything but this tiny person who was new and beautiful and completely hers. She had lost everyone and everything she once cherished…but the birth of her son brought love back to her heart.

  Liam, she thought. She would call him Liam, after her father. She felt joy spring to life within her for the first time in months, along with a tiny bud of hope. Just after hearing his first cries, she had passed out.

  Someone was squeezing her hand. Elizabeth opened her eyes and squinted up at two familiar figures leaning over her.

  “Georgiana?” she blinked. Yes, it was Lady Georgiana Petersham, Viscountess Alden, and beside her sat Nell Osgood. The two women had appointed themselves Elizabeth’s protectors from the day she arrived in the cell. Like her, they were newcomers to Fleet—the viscountess jailed for her husband’s gambling debts, and Nell, a shopkeeper, entrapped by a false charge sworn out by a jealous competitor.

  During the long days and nights when there was nothing but conversation to fill the darkness and chase away fear, the three of them had become close.

  “Georgiana.” Elizabeth weakly held out her arms. Her friends had done their best as midwives. “Give me my son.”

  “Elizabeth, lamb…” Georgiana’s lower lip began to tremble. She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand tighter. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  A bolt of panic shot through Elizabeth. “My son. Georgiana, where is my son? Give me my son!” She struggled to sit up, but her weakened body wouldn’t respond. Anguish and terror filled her before she even heard Georgiana’s next words.